If one doesn’t worry, how does one understand? - E. M. Forster

She was no longer examining life, but being examined by it; she had become a real person.

After all, is not a real Hell better than a manufactured Heaven?

She began to speak, but waited a moment for the maid to clear away the tea. In the waning light her room seemed gentle and grey, and there hung about it an odour (I do not write ‘the odour’) of Roman Catholicism, which is assuredly among the gracious things of the world. It was the room of a woman who had found time to be good to herself as well as to others; who had brought forth fruit, spiritual and temporal; who had borne a mysterious tragedy not only with patience but actually with joy.