In solitude they could express those beautiful but too vast desires which were so oddly uncomfortable to the ears of other men and women--desires for a world, such as their own world which contained two people seemed to them to be, where people knew each other intimately and thus judged each other by what was good, and never quarrelled, because that was waste of time.
They would talk of such questions among books, or out in the sun, or sitting in the shade of a tree undisturbed.

They were no longer embarrassed, or half-choked with meaning which could not express itself; they were not afraid of each other, or, like travellers down a twisting river, dazzled with sudden beauties when the corner is turned; the unexpected happened, but even the ordinary was lovable, and in many ways preferable to the ecstatic and mysterious, for it was refreshingly solid, and called out effort, and effort under such circumstances was not effort but delight.
While Rachel played the piano, Terence sat near her, engaged, as far as the occasional writing of a word in pencil testified, in shaping the world as it appeared to him now that he and Rachel were going to be married.

It was different certainly.

The book called _Silence_ would not now be the same book that it would have been.

He would then put down his pencil and stare in front of him, and wonder in what respects the world was different--it had, perhaps, more solidity, more coherence, more importance, greater depth.