Charlotte Brontë – Jane Eyre (1847)

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble. His eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue, a speaking instrument–nothing more.

All this was torture to me–refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how, if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Leave a Reply