It seems that she is so immersed in the waste land that she hardly has the time or the faculty to form an actual train of thought.
She glad it's over; there is very little passion there. Eliot's bleak view of the human condition: ignorant people, half alive, unable to even see for themselves the sorry state they are in. They need a blind prophet to do that.
Here she then, our typist, surrounded by the half-formed thoughts that hardly take root in her mind.
Notice the barely veiled reference to Pearl Jam's Evenflow? As always, thank you for taking this journey with me.