#my fellow devils

The easy, friendly presence of someone who spoke her language and to whom she did not have to adapt herself, yet who extended her vision and made her value herself . . .

Her steps came quicker and she began to run.

She could not remember what it had been like to be in love with him; she could not think herself back into that position.

. . . surprised that she could still feel disappointed.

. . . unhappily aware that the more they argued the further from each other they became.

. . . she still wanted to get in touch with him—she hardly knew why, for talking to him had become a torment . . .

He was not treating her as an intelligent human being. He was treating her, how? As one of the vast audience of his fans, who could never think anything evil of him . . . the willing dupes of the illusion he knew so well how to create.

Love is irreplaceable by other activities and refuses substitutes.