Quotation from: Villette

Written by: Charlotte Bronte

"Come," said he, more softly, "tell me the truth--you grieve at being
parted from friends--is it not so?"

The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the
inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down
on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for
him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation--attempts
necessarily unavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last I
entreated to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered,
my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though
quietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the
closing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. These
tears proved a relief.