Just found this last night, re-reading one of my old Mary Stewarts (Madam, Will You Talk?):
I chuckled through a bite of croissant, aware of a miraculous spring-time lift of the heart, a champagne-tingling of the blood: the nightmare had gone; this fresh sun of morning rose on a different world where the last gossamer rag of fear and uncertainty must shrink and vanish in the superfluity of light. I said: "I was--translated."

I see now that I missed the meaning completely, the first n times I read it.