The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #11)

by Louise Penny

“You continued counseling prisoners at the other penitentiaries,” he said. “Murderers, rapists. But you stopped eventually and came here. Why?” “Because it was too much. It wasn’t their failure, it was mine. They were too damaged. I couldn’t help them.” “Maybe some can’t be repaired because they were never damaged,” he suggested.

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.