It seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out… — Charlotte Brontë

"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.