As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me.
The look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an idiot, however, would have succumbed now.
I had dared and baffled his fury; I must elude his sorrow: I retired to the door.
"You are going, Jane?"
"I am going, sir."
"You are leaving me?" "Yes."
"You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer?
My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?"
What unutterable pathos was in his voice! How hard it was to reiterate firmly, "I am going."
"Jane!" "Mr. Rochester!"
"Withdraw, then, I consent; but remember, you leave me here in anguish.
Go up to your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings -- think of me."
He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa.
"Oh, Jane! my hope -- my love -- my life!" broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a deep, strong sob.