I knew what she meant, and in that moment felt as though I had shaken off some of the dust and grit of ten dry years; then and always, however she spoke to me–in half sentences, single words, stock phrases of contemporary jargon, in scarcely perceptible movements of eyes or lips or hands–however inexpressible her thought, however quick and far it had glanced from the matter in hand, however deep it had plunged, as it often did, straight from the surface to the depths, I knew; even that day when I stood on the extreme verge of love, I knew what she meant.
Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh
Little Stories 