Fingersmith

by Sarah Waters

It was odd to see her stepping out of that gloomy place, like a pearl coming out of an oyster.

My passions are met with punishments, each fiercer than the last.

But I could not want a lover, more than I want freedom.

But the more I think it, the more I want her, the more my desire rises and swells.

I think I was dead, before. Now she has touched the life of me, the quick of me; she has put back my flesh and opened me up.

And so you see it is love—not scorn, not malice; only love—that makes me harm her, in the end.