" I’m so afraid that the treasures I long to unpack for you, that have come to me in magic ships from enchanted islands, are only, to you, the old familiar red calico & beads of the clever trader, who had dealing in every latitude, & knows just what to carry in the hold to please the simple native—I’m so afraid of this, that often & often I stuff my shining treasure back into their box, lest I should see you smiling at them!

Well! And if you do? It’s your loss, after all! And if you can’t come into the room without my feeling all over me a ripple of flame, & if, wherever you touch me, a heart beats under your touch, & if, when you hold me, & I don’t speak, it’s because all the words in me seem to have become throbbing pulses, & all my thoughts are a great gold blur—why should I be afraid of your smiling at me, when I can turn the beads & calico back into such beauty—? "

― Edith Wharton