“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 with disgust as i did from her: in your quite moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and i could hang over you with untiring tenderness though you have me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, through they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.”

and if i DIED MS. BRONTË.