Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours.