Villette (AmazonClassics Edition)

by Charlotte Brontë

“All these weary days,” said he, repeating my words, with a gentle, kindly mimicry of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips, and of which the playful banter never wounded, not even when coupled, as it often was, with the assertion, that however I might write his language, I spoke and always should speak it imperfectly and hesitatingly. “‘All these weary days’ I have not for one hour forgotten you. Faithful women err in this, that they think themselves the sole faithful of God’s creatures. On a very fervent and living truth to myself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any quarter; but——look at me.”

fuck me up

Ever after that I knew what I was for him; and what I might be for the rest of the world, I ceased painfully to care.

I went from hating this relationship to loving it.