No one but himself--and Robin--could know the meaning, the feeling, the nature of this Donal.

It was as if he lived in a new Dimension of whose existence other people did not know.
He could not have explained because it would not have been understood.
He could vaguely imagine that effort at explanation would end--even begin--by being so clumsy that it would be met by puzzled or unbelieving smiles.
To walk about--to sleep--to awaken surrounded by rarefied light and air in which no object or act or even word or thought wore its past familiar meaning, or to go about the common streets, feeling as though somehow one were apart and unseen, was a singular thing.

Having had a youth filled with quite virile pleasures and delightful emotions--and to be lifted above them into other air and among other visions--was, he told himself, like walking in a dream.

To be filled continually with one thought, to rebel against any obstacle in the path to one desire, and from morning until night to be impelled by one eagerness for some moment or hour for which there was reason enough for its having place in the movings of the universe, if it brought him face to face with what he must stand near to--see--hear--perhaps touch.
It was because of the world's madness, because of the human fear and weeping everywhere, because of the new abysses which seemed to yawn every day on every side, that both soul and senses were so abnormally overstrung.

He was overwhelmed by exquisite compassions in his thoughts of Robin, he was afraid for her youngness, her sweetness, the innocent defencelessness which was like a child's.