And then last, but oh, so utterly first, came George Eliot. It was in the days...

And then last, but oh, so utterly first, came George Eliot. It was in the days when her cult was at its height-thank heaven I never left her shrine!-and we used to wait outside Macmillan's shop to seize the new instalments of Daniel Deronda. She came for a few minutes to my room, and I was almost senseless with excitement. I had just repapered my room with the newest thing in dolorous Morris papers. Some one must have called her attention to it, for I remember that
she said in her shy, impressive way, "Your paper makes a beautiful background for your face." The ecstasy was too much, and I knew no more.