Daphné Du Maurier

It was strange how morale rose to heaven because of his visit. Before,
she’d felt senseless and numb, and there wasn’t an answer. Her spirits were
at zero, she hadn’t a hope in the world. Now, because of his chat, she was
singing again. Despondency vanished, gloom was flung out of the window.
Ill luck was an imp to be spat at, fought with and vanquished; fortune a
sprite to be seized, held on to and guarded; life an adventure, an ally, and
not an antagonist. She moved among her possessions, cool and clearheaded,
wasting no sentiment, sorting the good from the trash.