or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who’s sorry for a gnat or girl?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
written by Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)