“It’s so beautiful that it hurts me,’ said Anne softly.
‘Perfect things like that always did hurt me — I remember I called it “the queer ache” when I was a child. What is the reason that pain like this seems inseparable from perfection? Is it the pain of finality — when we realise that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Owen dreamily, ‘it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection.”