'...To be approached was entirely unbearable; a desiring or acute glance was in itself an assault; see she must, but to be seen was somehow insult. She loathed touch and always avoided it; the lightest accidental touch rasped her like a cat's tongue. Love of her neighbour was a thing felt stilly, thinly diffused among pitied lovers - puppies - parents - flowers - insects - even things - (she often felt guilty for disappointing things) - even invented things - blank pensioners of her compassionate fancy...'
from Tobit Transplanted by Stella Benson (Chapter IV)
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