“I feel unreal,” said Christie. “That’s how I feel⁠—unreal. I’ve told myself stories about a lover since I was little. But after Olwen was born⁠—oh, and before that, too⁠—my life was so crushed and inert that I seemed to look at everything from some point outside of myself⁠—as if my mind had been a cold, hard, inert mirror, reflecting what was there, but not feeling anything. But now I’ve known you it’s been all different. My mind has got in touch again. I was a mere husk or shell all those miserable years⁠—without a heart at all. But now the husk has come to life, and my heart with it. But sometimes I think my heart’s still partly dead.”

“I’m perfectly satisfied with how your heart is,” Wolf threw in. “Alive or dead, I’ve got it now, and I’m never going to let it go! What’s so strange is that I don’t idealize you one bit; and I don’t think you idealize me either. I think it’s wonderful how we accept each other just as we are.”

“Whether it’s being my mother’s daughter or not,” said Christie, “it’s a great comfort to me to have the feelings I have about what you’re doing or where you are.⁠ ⁠… I think if anything happened to you I should know.”