“You don’t sound happy, mo ghrád,” he had told her over her landlady’s telephone, about a year after she’d left. She wasn’t, not even then, though there was still the buoyant hope that one day it would slip into place like a gear in a clock. But she hadn’t gone in search of happiness. Happiness was at home, on the island, in the midnight suns of summer, the winter skies dancing with lights...”
Book:The Wild Hunt