When he thought of these things, all that was in him gave way before this mystery of sublimity...
Everything around him, this quiet garden, these balmy flowers, these children, shouting with joy, these meek and simple women, this silent cloister, gradually entered into all his being, and, little by little, his soul subsided into silence like this cloister, into fragrance like these flowers, into peace like this garden, into simplicity like these women, into joy, like these children...
Several years passed thus.
Victor Hugo
Les Miserables
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