I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield orchard. And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?

I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress.

No, sir! I am an independent woman now.

Reader, I married him.

My dear master, I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out—I am come back to you.

My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.

Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre

Which I never will, sir, from this day.

Certainly—unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion—to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you.

It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you.