There was the look of the mad saint in her eye, the obsessive, the mortifier of the flesh, but I didn't care. She was lovely, wilting, clear-eyed, and pure, as cool and matchless as if she'd just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, and I was in love.
Besides, I tended a little that way myself. Hypochondria. Anal retentiveness. The ordered environment and alphabetized books.
