'....there was revealed to her, within her soul, a bottomless depth, a mad, wild, reckless fervour of passion, which bid fair to blast all the life that lay before her, which had begun its blasting work already, withering up all her little innocent joys with the furnace-breath of its fiery flame, taking the sap out of her girl's pleasures, and making them like the dry twigs on a tree whose principle of life is extinct. That muddy, polluted flood of earthly love (for is not all earthly love, even that of the purest woman, polluted with the taint of mortality?) had, with its bitter waters, swallowed up and choked the spring of higher, better love, which might have refreshed and watered her soul for the garden of God. Oh, idiot! - to make so losing a bargain with this dull, passing world.'
from Not Wisely, But Too Well by Rhoda Broughton (Chapter IV)
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