And her eyes filled with heavy, regretful tears, yet she did not quite know for what she was weeping. She only knew that some great sense of loss, some great sense of incompleteness possessed her, and she let the tears trickle down her face, wiping them off one by one with her finger. Radclyffe Hall, The Well Of Loneliness (via br-o-ken-poetry)

(via imtiredofactingokay)