Then, after he was out of sight, she would have found a bench or a fountain-ledge to sit on, someplace where no one else would join her but where anyone might- the sort of place where she could indulge in her solitude, yes, but also in the possibility that something wonderful, something she never could have expected, might come along and break it. For a long time that had seemed to her to be the key to life: life -real life- was really just a solitude waiting to be transfigured.