“Once, when she was looking at me distressfully, she murmured, "You — you've no more illusion at all. I pity you!"
At that moment, within the space of a flash, she was thinking of me only, and she pities me! She has found something in her grief to give me.”

—  Henri Barbusse

Light (1919), Ch. XIX - Ghosts

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Henri Barbusse197
French novelist 1873–1935

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