Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately. "Little skeptic, you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
You — you strange — you almost unearthly thing! — I love as my own flesh. You — poor and obscure, and… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should - so hard as… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
My God, whose son, as on this night, took on Him the form of man, and for man vouchsafed to suffer and bleed, controls… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
“A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means, though He often… — Charlotte Brontë Copy Share Image
“This night is not calm; the equinox still struggles in its storms. The wild rains of the day are abated; the great single cloud… — Charlotte Brontë Copy Share Image
“How dare I, Mrs Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do… — Charlotte Brontë Copy Share Image
“If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often under… — Charlotte Brontë Copy Share Image
If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity, or registering wrongs. With this creed, revenge never worries my heart, degradation… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were -… — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
Talented people almost always know full well the excellence that is in them. — Charlotte Bronte Copy Share Image
“Not one spark of spirit, not one symptom of resistance, would they have shown till the hand of the Corsican bandit had grasped that… — Charlotte Brontë Copy Share Image
