"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, as 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 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 quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me: and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me."
- Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
Female authors are so (bloody hell) much better.
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