She had tried to love him.

She rested her head against his and felt, for the first time, what she would often feel with him: a self-affection. He made her like herself.

She knew that he loved her above all else, more than anything in the world, but only for his own sake.

She did love him, you know... It was a selfish, possessive love, but it was all she knew how to give.

To be loved to madness — such was her great desire. Love was to her the one cordial which could drive away the eating loneliness of her days. And she seemed to long for the abstraction called passionate love more than for any particular lover.

The most she dared to wish for now was to live long enough to become a woman. (p46)

Forbid her anything and it became her heart’s desire.

Love hath so long possessed me for his own
And made his lordship so familiar.

It seemed that the only lover she had ever wanted was a lover in a dream.

There's a type of woman who isn't content until she's made herself some man's slave and doormat—put herself completely in his power.

You, Jane, I must have you for my own — entirely my own.

Then she wished, more rationally, that she could love him without needing him. Need gave him power without his trying; need was the choicelessness she often felt around him.

He loved her so passionately he wanted her to be one soul and one body with him; and he was conscious that here, with those deep roots attaching her to the native life, she would always keep something from him.

I take her as God made her, and as men Must fail to unmake her, for my honoured wife.