Mas recordar, todos recordavam; o que ela amava era isto, aqui, agora, na sua frente; a senhora gorda no carro. Importava então, indagava consigo, encaminhando-se para Bond Street, importava mesmo que tivesse de desaparecer um dia, inevitavelmente? Tudo aquilo continuava sem ela. Sentia-o? Ou seria um consolo pensar que a morte acabava com tudo, absolutamente?

-Virginia Woolf

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