One wanted fifty pairs of eyes to see with, she reflected. Fifty pairs of eyes were not enough to get round that one woman with, she thought. […] One wanted most some secret sense, some fine air, with which to steal through keyholes and surround her where she sat knitting, talking, sitting silent in the window alone; which took itself and treasured up like the air which held the smoke of the steamer, her thoughts, her imaginations, her desires.
— Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)