“It was his fault, she thought coldly, anticipating a new wave of anger. It was his fault, it was his fault. His presence, and more than his presence: knowing that he existed, took away her freedom. Only rarely now, in a quick escape, was she able to feel. That was it: it was his fault. How hadn’t she discovered it earlier? she wondered victoriously. He stole everything from her, everything. And since the phrase was still weak, she thought intensely, her eyes closed, everything! She felt better, she thought with more clarity.”
—Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart