“Ten years since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as my companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with a very angel as my comforter.»
I laughed at him as he said this. «I am not an angel,» I asserted; «and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.
Mr. Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me—for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.»
«What do you anticipate of me?»”