” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond.
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