All she knew was that she was suddenly alive to a space inside herself where the haste and habit of her adult life had no dominion. She sensed the passions that drifted in that space only vaguely, as her fingertips might sense fog. But she would come to know them better with time, those passions, and the acts that they’d engender: she was certain of that as she’d been certain of nothing in days. She’d know them — and, God help her — she’d love them as her own.
