“Did you ever see such art?’ whispered Eliza, who was my nearest neighbour. ‘Would you not say they were perfect strangers?’ ‘Almost; but what then?’ ‘What then; why, you can’t pretend to be ignorant?’ ‘Ignorant of what?’ demanded I, so sharply that she started and replied,— ‘Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.’ ‘Well, tell me then,’ I answered in a lower tone, ‘what is it you mean? I hate enigmas.’ ‘Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it—indeed, far from it—but haven’t you heard—?’ ‘I’ve heard nothing, except from you.’ ‘You must be wilfully deaf then, for anyone will tell you that; but I shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my tongue.’ She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of injured meekness. ‘If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had to say.’ She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, and went to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed—not so much of my harshness as for her childish weakness.”
―
Anne Brontë,
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall