She was hidden from herself inside herself, she rose up from out of herself, she had a self-contained pride, like the daring flight of the spruce, even though it is fastened to the earth. A sadness poured over her like the cooing of the woodpigeon, a deep longing that had no want. She was a riddle, who mysteriously possessed her own solution, a secret, and what are all diplomats’ secrets compared with this, an enigma, and what in all the world is so beautiful as the word that solves it?