The House of the Spirits

by Isabel Allende

It had been a long time since she had shed even a single tear and she was astonished to see how badly she had needed some sign of tenderness. She could not remember the last time anyone had spontaneously touched her. She wept for a long time, unburdening herself of many past sorrows and her loneliness, still holding on to Clara’s hand.

I was of an age when you need help and tenderness if you’re going to make love. I was old, damn it.