She felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky: she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her.
("The House of Mirth")
More Quotes from Edith Wharton:
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The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else.
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Silence may be as variously shaded as speech.
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We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?
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The American landscape has no foreground and the American mind no background.
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