“All the while, however, she was waiting in her heart for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this act of fortune would be, what wind would bring it, toward what shore it would dive her, if it would be a rowboat or an ocean liner with three decks, carrying anguish or laden to the gunwales with bliss. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped that it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset more saddened, she longed for the next day.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”, 1857
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