Her grief grieved her. His devastated her.

She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.

...misery had her dwelling in my heart...

She stayed there, in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, on a chair, without a fire, without a thought.

Her own misery filled her heart — there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.

She was too busy feeling grief to dress like grief.

He nestled in her arms, and she knew she would rather die than let them be parted and face that sadness again; it would send her mad with grief and terror.

In my life the furniture eats me

the chairs, the floor
the walls
which heard your sobs
drank up my emotion-
they which alone know everything

and snitched on us in the morning-

She could no longer borrow from the future to ease her present grief.

I remember the ache I used to feel when she got too close, how it felt like grief, how it felt like a loss, like I was falling, falling into nothing, how it clenched me up and made me want to weep, made me actually weep.

Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in dismay. "The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?"

The sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart... converted it into a tomb.

Sharp knives seemed to cut her delicate feet, yet she hardly felt them — so deep was the pain in her heart.