Lucy stayed. She let her eyes roam the room with its small desk, stiff, straight chair, and bed, and she thought of all the stories penned here. Jane Eyre, a journey of self-realization, passion, and promise . . . Shirley, emotionally distant with more of an eye to social change rather than to the heart . . . Villette, with its pervading sense of isolation and search for one’s place. How could the Brontës, all the sisters, write such characters, write of such change and of such loss, unless they’d felt it, endured it, and suffered through it? With Courage to Endure.
