"She never talked of it--she went, punctually, directly. It was her instinct to go, and instinct like the swallows for the south, the artichokes for the sun, turning her infallibly to the human race, making her nest in its heart. And this, like all instincts, was a little distressing to people who did not share it... Some notion was in both of them about the ineffectiveness of action, the supremacy of thought."
Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse
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