Into different regions of the space around our persons would we move our spheres of qi, in a slow but inevitable cycle, all in silence, and in unison, as if they were a treasure or a precious commodity, which I think they were, for there was, in the conviction of our routine, and also, I suppose, in its sincerity or goodwill, something like a mode of invention by which the objects of our focus, while invisible, yet became real, if not substantive, or sensible to touch.