jane-eyre

He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and
this time just before me.
‘Jane! will you hear reason?’ (he stooped and approached
his lips to my ear); ‘because, if you won’t, I’ll try violence.’
His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just
about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong
into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with
one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing
with him. The present—the passing second of time—was all
I had in which to control and restrain him—a movement
of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,—and
his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward
power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis
was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian,
perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe.
I took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted
fingers, and said to him, soothingly—
‘Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all
you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.’
He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I
had been struggling with tears for some time: I had taken
great pains to repress them, because I knew he would not
like to see me weep. Now, however, I considered it well to
let them flow as freely and as long as they liked. If the flood
annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave way and cried
heartily.
Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed.
I said I could not while he was in such a passion.
‘But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and
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