Such were her thoughts, though she lacked the words to express them.

She wondered how to un-know certain things, certain specific things that she knew but did not wish to know

Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.

Now and then I see something in her eyes, and I wonder if I’ve ever grasped how much pain she’s really in.

Sometimes she did not know what she feared, what she desired: whether she feared or desired what had been or what would be, and precisely what she desired, she did not know.

She was lost in her longing to understand.

She had an immense curiosity about life, and was constantly staring and wondering.

Once one had seen her eyes, the rest of the face grew vague, and when one tried to recall her image afterwards, only the piercing, questioning violence of the wide eyes remained.

Though not fearful of measurable dangers, she feared the unknown.

It was harder to work out that there was a question than to think of the answer.

She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things.

"Oh no," she said, still smiling; her eyes poured over with light, that of compassion. She understood how he felt, that this was not an impulse only. But the answer was still no, and, he knew, it would always

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
...live in the question.

She searched the truth with an anguish almost as great as her terrible fear of finding it .