“This is what is meant by a purple twilight. Lamps alight, small round lights, each in place, shedding no radiance, white day lingering on the stone pillars of the great crescent, the park railings distinct, the trees shrouded but looming very large and permanent, the air wide and high and purple, darkness alight and warm. Far, far away beyond the lengths of two endless months is Christmas. This kind of day lived for ever. It stood still. The whole year, funny little distant fussy thing, stood still in this sort of day. You could take it in your hand and look at it. Nobody could touch this.” —Dorothy Richardson, The Tunnel (1919), pp. 255-6.