|
07c362b
|
"Good-night, my-" He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me."
|
|
mr-rochester
|
Charlotte Brontë |
|
c5f60aa
|
His presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire.
|
|
mr-rochester
|
Charlotte Brontë |
|
d2807e6
|
And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you. Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her restoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight. How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more.
|
|
love
mr-rochester
jane-eyre
sight
|
Charlotte Brontë |
|
c4dc23b
|
How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more.
|
|
love
mr-rochester
jane-eyre
|
Charlotte Brontë Brontë |
|
5aefefa
|
"You examine me, Miss Eyre", said he. "Do you think me handsome?" I should have deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware: "No, sir."
|
|
jane-is-a-savage
oh-snap
mr-rochester
jane-eyre
|
Charlotte Brontë |
|
11dd70b
|
Reader, I married him. It turned out the sounds I heard coming from the attic weren't the screams of Mr Rochester's mad wife Bertha. It wasn't the wife who burned to death in the fire that destroyed Thornfield Hall and blinded my future husband when he tried to save her. After we'd first got engaged, he'd had to admit that he was already married, and we'd broken off our engagement. He'd asked me to run away with him anyway. Naturally, I'd refused. But later, after we were properly married, he insisted that it hadn't happened that way. It turned out there had been no wife. It turned out that it had been a parrot, screaming in the attic. The parrot had belonged to his wife. She had got it in the islands, where she had also contracted the tropical fever that killed her. She'd died long before I came to work for him as a governess. That was never Bertha, in the attic.
|
|
mr-rochester
parrot
|
Francine Prose |