Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they
know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
( George Eliot )
[ Adam Bede ]
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