“‘Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don’t know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because she is mad that I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?’

‘I do indeed, sir.’

‘Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat–your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you in disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you would have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.'”

Okay, let me explain:

Mr. Rochester is trying to convince Jane that even if she lost it, he would love her. I think it’s really sweet, and I wanted to share it with everyone. I made my friend read this at lunch, and she was like, “Oh, that’s nice,” and I was like, “NICE? NICE? THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER, MAI. WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

Also, can we talk about the whole “strait waistcoat” thing? Even in the nineteenth century, people had strait jackets. But they called them strait waistcoats, which sounds much classier, so okay.

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