Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt? May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding… — Charlotte Brontë
Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt? May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.
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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."
Reader, I married him.
I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified.
