Because grandeur is not the absence of pain. It is the refusal to let pain cancel beauty.
She does not enter a room so much as claim it. The air itself seems to remember its manners when she crosses the threshold—hushing, straightening, turning its gaze toward her with a deference that has nothing to do with wealth and everything to do with presence. -ENG- The Grandeur of the Aristocrat Lady
Critics have called her cold. They mistake composure for absence. In truth, her heart runs deep as any river—but rivers do not flood for every pebble thrown. She has wept in private chambers, mourned in the dark hours when titles mean nothing and grief is the only true equalizer. But dawn finds her at the window, spine erect, already planning which garden path to walk, which invitation to accept, which rumor to let die of loneliness. Because grandeur is not the absence of pain