That night Christine Hartmann went to bed with a book she had taken from among the many that lay strewn around the Manor. From an early age she had developed the art of being alone and generally preferred her own company to anyone else's. She read books at enormous speed and judged them entirely on their ability to remove her from her material surroundings. In almost all the unhappiest days of her life she had been able to escape from her own inner world by living temporarily in someone else's, and on the two or three occasions that she had been too upset to concentrate she had been desolate.
That evening, Christine Hartmann settled into bed with a book she had chosen from the many scattered throughout the Manor. Since childhood, she had honed the skill of solitude, often preferring her own company over that of others. An avid reader, she devoured books rapidly, evaluating them based on their power to transport her away from her physical environment.
Throughout her most difficult days, literature provided a crucial escape from her inner turmoil, allowing her to temporarily inhabit the worlds crafted by other authors. However, during moments of deep distress when she found it hard to focus, she felt a profound sense of loneliness and sadness.
