1 My love has placed her little hand.
2 I suppose your love will effervesce in six months, or less.
3 If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them.
4 God is my father; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me.
5 There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though much to create despair.
6 Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion.
7 It is as natural as that I should love those who show me affection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved.
8 I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise.
9 You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity.
10 He must love such a handsome, noble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his person, at least his purse.
11 The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass.
12 Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt.
13 He is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised.
14 No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song.
15 I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure.
16 To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow.
17 The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste that point was: at least I thought so.
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