At that moment sighs could be heard, moaning, tiny cries, muffled at first, sounds that seemed to be words, that ought to be words, but whose meaning got lost in the crescendo that transformed them into shouts and grunts and finally heavy, stertorous breathing. Someone protested at the far end of the ward. Pigs, they’re like pigs. They were not pigs, only a blind man and a blind woman who probably knew nothing more about each other than this.
- JOSÉ SARAMAGO, Ensaio sobre a cegueira
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