Surely nothing quite like Barbara's imagination had ever been seen before, because it came to her, outside inheritance, outside environment, outside observation.

She had it altogether, in spite of Flints past and present.

But, perhaps, not altogether in spite of March Square.

It would be difficult to say how deeply the fountain, the almond tree, the green, flat shining grass had stung her intuition; but stung it only, not created it--the thing was there from the beginning of all time.

She talked, at first to nurses, servants, her mother, about the things that she knew; about her Friend who often came to see her, who was there so many times--there in the room with her when they couldn't catch a glimpse of him; about the days and nights when she was away anywhere, up in the sky, out on the air, deep in the sea, about all the other experiences that she remembered but was now rapidly losing consciousness of.