I'm getting near the end of The Third Angel. I'll have a full review later, but this section so perfectly describes the strong, strange love I (and many others) have for London.
“As Lucy stared up at the chaos of Euston Station, she felt the way some people did when they fell in love. London had won her over despite herself. She actually felt a quickening of her blood. Outside it was even better – darker and more bustling. The streetlights were yellow and Lucy felt she was in a dream. She could vanish into the hustle of London and yet still be herself. There were probably thousands – no, millions – of books she hadn’t yet read in this city. There were bookshops and libraries and bookstalls and publishers and guided tours of places where writers had made up whole other worlds out of nothing but words” pg. 205
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