A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow. - Charlotte Brontë

Her coming was my hope each day,
Her parting was my pain;
The chance that did her steps delay
Was ice in every vein.

You — you strange — you almost unearthly thing! — I love as my own flesh. You — poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are — I entreat to accept me as a husband.

To be together is for us to be at once free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character - perfect concord is the result.