“It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage; Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.” My nerves vibrated to these low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder—my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire;…I looked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me…He disavowed nothing…Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognize in me a human being, he only twined my waste with his arm, and riveted me to his side.
“That is my wife…Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know…And this is what I wished to have (laying his hand on my shoulder); this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon…Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder—this face with that mask—this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the Gospel and man of the law”
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent expectant woman—almost a bride—was a cold, solitary girl again; her life was pale; her prospects were desolate…I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses, that could never revive. I looked at my love; that feeling which was my master’s—which he had created; it shivered in my heart.