Em Tinkham

“Are you mad?” “I’m in love, I think. A little. Maybe.” “You are going to cross Nazi-occupied France to spend a few nights in Paris in the bed of a man whom you might love. A little.” “I know,” Isabelle said. “It’s so romantic.” “You must be feverish. Perhaps you have a brain sickness of some kind.” She put her hands on her hips and made a huff of disapproval. “If love is a disease, I suppose I’m infected.”
― Kristin Hannah, The Nightingale