Madame Bovary

"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)