Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Brontë

there was ever in Mr. Rochester (so at least I thought) such a wealth of the power of communicating happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered to stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially.

There's a good title for a book…

“Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me.” “It would to obey you.”

but as his wife—at his side always, and always restrained, and always checked—forced to keep the fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital—this would be unendurable.