My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt.

I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive.

I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master's--which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr.Rochester's arms--it could not derive warmth from his breast.
Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted--confidence destroyed! Mr.Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought him.

I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: _that_ I perceived well.
When--how--whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield.

Real affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more.