There are lots of other questions,” she continued, “though perhaps we can’t ask them yet.” Although they had talked so freely they were all uncomfortably conscious that they really knew nothing about each other. “The important questions,” he pondered, “the really interesting ones. I doubt that one ever does ask them.” She, who was slow to accept the fact that only a very few things can be said even by people who know each other well, insisted on knowing what he meant.
“Whether we’ve ever been in love?” she enquired. “Is that the kind of question you mean?”.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)