Oft A Little Morning Rain Foretells A

The Hiss Of The Quenched Element, The Breakage Of The Pitcher Which I Had Flung From My Hand When I Had Emptied It, And, Above All, The Splash Of The Shower-bath I Had Liberally Bestowed, Roused Mr Rochester At Last Though It Was Dark, I Knew He Was Awake; Because I Heard Him Fulminating Strange Anathemas At Finding Himself Lying In A Pool Of Water. 'is There A Flood?' He Cried

Better To Try All Things And Find All Empty, Than To Try Nothing And Leave Your Life A Blank.

Let Your Performance Do The Thinking.

I Must, Then, Repeat Continually That We Are Forever Sundered - And Yet, While I Breathe And Think, I Must Love Him.' - Jane Eyre

I Am Not Talking To You Now Through The Medium Of Custom, Conventionalities, Nor Even Of Mortal Flesh: It Is My Spirit That Addresses Your Spirit; Just As If Both Had Passed Through The Grave, And We Stood At God's Feet, Equal--as We Are!