Finally, she bent over and, heaving, fell to her knees. Cussing worn out words. As long as she ranted, sobs couldn't surface. A simple hope of being with someone, of actually being wanted, of being touched had drawn her in. But these hurried groping hands were only a taking, not a sharing or giving.
Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (pg. 162)














