I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart.

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.

You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not ask you; because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.

I could not answer the ceaseless inward question-why I thus suffered; now, at the distance of-I will not say how many years, I see it clearly.

I knew, you would do me good, in some way, at some time;- I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not- (again he stopped)- did not (he proceeded hastily) strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing.

To you I am neither man nor woman. I come before you as an author only.

I can but die... and I believe in God. Let me try and wait His will in silence.