Charlotte Bronte Quotes

By The Clock Of St Jean Baptiste, That Dream Remained Scarce Fifteen Minutes
a Brief Space, But Sufficing To Wring My Whole Frame With Unknown Anguish; To Confer A Nameless Experience That Had The Hue, The Mien, The Terror, The Very Tone Of A Visitation From Eternity. Between Twelve And One That Night A Cup Was Forced To My Lips, Black, Strong, Strange, Drawn From No Well, But Filled Up Seething From A Bottomless And Boundless Sea. Suffering, Brewed In Temporal Or Calculable Measure, And Mixed For Mortal Lips, Tastes Not As This Suffering Tasted.

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