Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you have an idea.

I wished critics would judge me as an author, not as a woman.

I am not an angel,' I asserted; 'and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me - for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.

It would not be wicked to love me." "It would to obey you.

Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.

He was the first to recognise me, and to love what he saw.

But afterwards, is there nothing more for me in life - no true home - nothing to be dearer to me than myself?