Some days, I just feel like Jane Eyre.
And then I don't.
And then I do.
This post makes no sense. It doesn't have to.
"I had not intended to love him: the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived, green and strong! He made me love
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