In the midst of friends, home, and kind parents, she was alone.

And just when she felt more capable of love than she had ever been, she found herself alone.

She was not yet dead. But I was already alone.

With her alone I could be far away from everyone.

In solitude she lived, And in solitude built her nest; And in solitude, alone Hath the Beloved guided her, In solitude also wounded with love. ~ 35

Isolate her, and however abundant the food or favourable the temperature, she will expire in a few days not of hunger or cold, but of loneliness.

She was an outsider. Had left her sisters. Forgotten hive and moiety.

She left an empty house in my heart. The lights don’t work anymore, the heater’s broken.

Children, dear and loving children, can alone console a woman for the loss of her beauty.

Better let it all alone in the depths of her heart and the depths of the sea.

But she is happiest alone. She is happiest alone.

From that time on she lived in lonely caves.

In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year . . . No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year’s day.

She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself.