“My father was prone to dark moods,” she said after a pause. “Weeks or months where he would feel despair over everything and nothing in particular. His father was the same, and some of his cousins as well. It was a private battle they all fought. Eventually the joy would emerge again—it always did—but we never judged him for those dark periods. We loved him through them.” We loved him through them. “Oh, Eleonore,” he said, struck by the simple beauty of the phrase. “That’s downright profound.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I know.” Then she smiled, softening the declaration into a
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