She hated whismy.

I just finished reading The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters and it was wonderfully wonderful.

"But it was the anonymity that did it.  She never felt the electric charge when she walked through London with someone at her side.  She never felt the excitement that she felt now, seeing the fall of the shadow of a railing across a set of worn steps.  Was it foolish, to feel like that about the shadow of a railing?  Was it whimsy?  She hated whimsy.  But it only became whimsy when she tried to put it into words.  If she allowed herself to simply feel it... There.  It was like being a string, and being plucked, giving out the single, pure note that one was made for."

I could hardly put it down.