I thought I loved him when he went away; I love him now in another degree: he is more my own. { . . . } Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered--not uttered till; when the hush came, some could not feel it: till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some!
( Charlotte Brontë )
[ Villette ]
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