Charlotte Bronte Quotes

Swifts, On A Fine Morning In May, Flying This Way, That Way, Sailing Around At A Great Hight, Perfectly Happily. Then, One Leaps Onto The Back Of Another, Grasps Tightly And Forgetting To Fly They Both Sink Down And Down, In A Great Dying Fall, Fathom After Fathom, Until The Female Utters A Loud, Piercing Cry Of Ecstasy.

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