““He went often to her little cottage outside
Dublin; often they spent their evenings alone.
Little by little, as their thoughts entangled,
they spoke of subjects less remote. Her
companionship was like a warm soil about an
exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to
fall upon them, refraining from lighting the
lamp. The dark discreet room, their isolation,
the music that still vibrated in their ears
united them. This union exalted him, wore
away the rough edges of his character,
emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he
caught himself listening to the sound of his
own voice. He thought that in her eyes he
would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as
he attached the fervent nature of his
companion more and more closely to him, he
heard the strange impersonal voice which he
recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's
incurable loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own.”
