He caught her hand, and she felt in his the vibration of feeling that had not yet risen to his lips. “Lily – can’t I help you?” he exclaimed.

She looked at him gently. “Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well – you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me. But the moment is gone – it was I who let it go. And one must go on living. Goodbye.”

She laid her other hand on his, and they looked at each other with a kind of solemnity, as though they stood in the presence of death. Something in truth lay dead between them – the love she had killed in him and could no longer call to life. But something lived between them also, and leaped up in her like an imperishable flame: it was the love his love had kindled, the passion of her soul for his.

The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton

Lindo, lindo, lindo. Os últimos três capítulos são absolutamente deslumbrantes. Mas preparem os lencinhos, porque rapadura é doce mas né mole não.