There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “To be my eternal love. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. We ourselves have been similarly circumstanced.
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