'...She was not in love, she had sought love so often, so eagerly, and so futilely that her capacity for it was long ago exhausted. Instead her mind was invaded by a sentiment to which she wholly surrendered herself. Around it she twisted all the imaginative garlands of which she was capable. These dreams were more to her than actuality could have been, for in them all was arranged to her liking, they far overtopped any possible reality, and left tasteless and unwished for the friendships or even love that she still might have had. She had never known summer; so must suffer again and again these false spring-times, these long moments of counterfeit enchantment, secretly feeding herself on miracles...'
from The Glasshouse by M. Barnard Eldershaw (Book Two, Chapter VIII)
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