…and departed, but Brother Solomon and the lady who had been Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was Mrs. Waule found it good to be there every day for hours, without other calculable occupation than that of observing the cunning Mary Garth (who was so deep that she could be found out in nothing) and giving occasional dry wrinkly indications of crying—as if capable of torrents in a wetter season—at the thought that they were not allowed to go into Mr. Featherstone’s room.
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Don’t let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world.
Ray Bradbury -- Fahrenheit 451
Her words come out in a torrent, as if she’s been hoarding them all for this moment.