Your will shall decide your destiny.

I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes.

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.

The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted.

The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter - in the eye.

Misery generates hate.

Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine.