"She had finished at last, she thought, with all things
treacherous and base, with all the lusts of the flesh that had tortured her.
She hated no one, now. A vague twilight was lowering upon her spirit, and, of
all earthly sounds, Emma heard only the intermittent lamentation of that poor
heart of hers, a lamentation soft and indistinct, like the last echo of a
symphony dying away in the distance". (Gustave Flaubert: Madame Bovary)