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And with that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.
Charlotte Bronte
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Charlotte Bronte
Age: 38 †
Born: 1816
Born: April 21
Died: 1855
Died: March 31
Novelist
Poet
Thornton
West Yorkshire
Syarŭllotʻŭ Pŭrontʻe
Ш. Бронте
Syarŭllotʻŭ Bŭrontʻe
Xialuodi Bolangte
Шарлотта Бронте
Sharlotta Bronte
Charles Wellesley
Charlotte Bronte
Cārla$15ṭti Pirāṇṭē
Douro
Karlotta Bronte
Mrs. Arthur Bell Nicholls
Tree
Florian Wellesley
Lord Charles Albert
Currer Bell
Charlotte Nicholls
Mrs. A. B. Nicholls
Hsia-lo-ti Po-lang-tʻe
Much
Would
Knocked
Answer
Answers
Rather
Left
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Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect and as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship none
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A beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance.
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Love me, then, or hate me, as you will, I said at last, you have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace.
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As far as my experience of matrimony goes -- I think it tends to draw you out of, and away from yourself.
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Shake me off, then, sir--push me away for I'll not leave you of my own accord.
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as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.
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You have rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face.
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It is not violence that best overcomes hate -- nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury.
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There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism they will have a witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may.
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Do you like him much? I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much: he is full of faults. Is he? All boys are. More than girls? Very likely.
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If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity.
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I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.
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My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden.
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The man of regular life and rational mind never despairs.
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The City seems so much more in earnest: its business, its rush, its roar are such serious things, sights and sounds. The City is getting its living - the West-End but enjoying its pleasure.
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You mocking changeling- fairy-born and human-bred!
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You are afraid of me, because I talk like a sphinx.
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Everyone else is just cocktails.
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You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not ask you because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.
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Better to be without logic than without feeling.
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