"However, it didn't make any difference where you were, because while we were asleep it was just as it is while we are awake—there is a fine thread that goes from me to you. There might be processions of people between us, chariots and horses and marching armies, but they couldn't break the thread."
"And what do we do all day?"
"Talk. Think. I think to you and you think back to me."
"But we must work. If we don't, you'll get tired of me." She spoke out of sad knowledge.
"Why, playmate!"
The reproach in his voice recalled her, and she was ashamed to find her belief less warm than his.
"Well," he conceded, "maybe we work. I go on grafting and sowing seeds and sending things to market, and you sit on a stone and sing."
"Shall I sing to you now?"
"No, playmate. It makes me sad."
"I could sing happy songs."