Sublime

It was pleasant to forget everything except his pleasure.

It was the kind of thing she could imagine impressing her cousin: an old house atop a hill, with mist and moonlight, like an etching out of a Gothic novel. Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, those were Catalina’s sort of books. Moors and spiderwebs. Castles too, and wicked stepmothers who force princesses to eat poisoned apples, dark fairies cursing

It reminded Elinor of the roof of King’s College Chapel,

alas! their high and palmy days had taken boots to themselves, and were already walking off.

Charles Dickens

having bestowed her affections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything better, represented them)