"She knew, of course, that there was something about her that was different. But it was more like a friendly spirit than like anything that was a part of herself. She brought everything to it, and it answered her; happiness consisted of that backward and forward movement of herself. The something came and went, she never knew how. Sometimes she hunted for it and could not find it; again, she lifted her eyes from a book, or stepped out-of-doors, or wakened in the morning, and it was there-under her cheek, it usually seemed to be, or over her breast-a kind of warm sureness. And when it was there, everything was more interesting and beautiful, even people."
-Willa Cather (Song of the Lark)