Sorrow is the great idealizer.

Grief is only the memory of widowed affections.

Eleanor went to her room "where she was free to think and be wretched.

What right have I to grieve, who have not ceased to wonder?

Nothing becomes so offensive so quickly as grief. When fresh it finds someone to console it, but when it becomes chronic, it is ridiculed, and rightly.

Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.