It was a little thing even for myself a short time ago, and really it would be a Pneumatological curiosity if I could describe and let you see how perfectly for years together, after what broke my heart at Torquay, I lived on the outside of my own life, blindly and darkly from day to day, as completely dead to hope of any kind as if I had my face against a grave, never feeling a personal instinct, taking trains of thought to carry out as an occupation absolutely indifferent to the me which is in every human being.
"The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1 of 2)"
Frederic G. Kenyon