Jane Eyre 2nd Edition Novels & Stories

The only book I owned, my worn copy of Jane Eyre, clattered to the floor. "Listen to me, you ungrateful nothing," she hissed. "I have fed you, clothed you, and kept a roof over your useless head for twenty-two years. You hide in here reading stupid novels while the rest of us live in the real world. You were always the useless twin; now you finally have a chance to be worth something. Don't you dare ruin it." I pressed my palm to my burning cheek, numbness spreading through my limbs as the edges of the room blurred. I went quiet. I'd learned years ago that crying only made her crueler.

His handwriting was neat and steady. I will not let you regret choosing me. That was all. For some reason, I read it three times.

"Ah … I'm so pleased to see you two in such sorry states." Indeed, she should've taken it out on them a long time ago. Didn't they look down on her previously? They felt like they were better than her. Now, they were reduced to this pitiable state. Their fate lay in her hands. Jane was filled with a profound, almost distorted sense of pleasure. She couldn't help but cackle maniacally. "Ms. Emerson is your cousin by marriage. And the Wilfare family owes the Winchester family a debt. As for me, I barely even talk to you!"

It was a bridge between his past and our present. In the center of the room stood the crib. It was mahogany, dark and rich, polished to a mirror shine. It looked sturdy enough to survive an earthquake. And above it... Above the crib hung a mobile. But not plastic animals. It was made of delicate glass stars and... pages. I walked closer. The "stars" were folded from paper. "Are those..." I reached out to touch one. "Alex, are these book pages?" "First editions," he murmured, standing behind me. "Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. The Great Gatsby."

I walk by and go inside the house without waiting for her to answer with another comment. I don’t want Scarlett anymore, I only want Jane in my arms. I’m to tired for now to talk to Scarlett and explain everything to her. So for now I will just go to bed. When I enter the second floor I can see that my doors are closed. I walk very quietly towards the doors and open them to see if everything is okay with Jane. When I look inside I can see her sleeping on my bed. She looks so cute and beautiful when she sleeps. Even if she is laying there with her thumb in her mouth. I chuckle softly and close the door.

She wasn't sure how much time she'd have to leisurely read but would take her chance when it came. The second floor to the library was full of rows upon rows of books and a few glass study rooms that weren't occupied. She walked down the rows one by one, her fingertips skimming the paranormal books that she'd grown accustomed to over the years. She snagged one from the third shelf up and flipped through the pages, wondering how an author came up with such a vivid story that had no real hold. She didn't believe in ghosts, goblins, or monsters. Even the sexy vampires and werewolves the girls fawned over in their spare time. Though they sounded magical, in real life, it seemed so ludicrous to t

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I rose from bed, frustrated to my gut as I left for the library, the only place I knew I could find my peace. I grabbed a book from the first shelf, it was my best book and I didn't mind reading it over again a hundred times. If it successfully keeps my mind off Andrew and his lady, I'd be glad. I curled up on the couch, looking down into the Jane Eyre novel. Every chapter is etched in my memory, and each sentence felt like an old friend whispering to me again. I didn’t even need to turn the pages to know what came next, yet still, I let my eyes wander across the words, soaking in the comfort of the story.

It looked almost ordinary, which somehow made it more unsettling. Jane leaned closer immediately, curiosity winning over caution like it always did with her. She released my hand and carefully lifted the book off my chest, settling it between her palms like it might bite if mishandled. “It is English,” she said after a quick scan. Then her brows pulled together. “But… this is strange.” Sammy shifted beside the bed, impatience tightening his shoulders. “Does it even matter who wrote it. Just read the bloody content.” Jane shot him a look but did not argue. She cleared her throat and started reading from the beginning, her voice steady, analytical, stripping emotion away as if that would make

I preferred to go into a staring contest with an inanimate object that to look at Asher, who I might have consciously forgotten. A book on the shelf stood out, it was inconspicuously standing out among its peers; Jane Eyre. A classic I had gotten as a gift for my eighteenth birthday from Reene, thinking of my Reene my eyes began to tear up. I hadn’t contacted any one from home since and although it was barely twelve hours since I left, I could not help thinking of them.