She looked up — and it seemed to her like her own eyes meeting her own eyes, searching as she alone could search into her mind and her heart, purifying out of existence any lie. She praised herself in praising the light, without vanity, for she was stern, she was searching, she was beautiful like that light. It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to things; inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt an irrational tenderness thus as for oneself.
Virginia Woolf, To the lighthouse
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