“I held out my sisters' letters for him to read. Tears appeared in his eyes, and he kissed the letters and declared, "I love your sisters! It shall be the object of my life to justify the trust shown in these letters. May God bless them.”

“But his letters . . . I took them with me, let the "ounces" cry aloud. I tried to leave, and could not. They would not be left; it was not my fault. I will not be scolded.”

“I imagined an impulsive Robert taking Henrietta's hands and proclaiming, "I love your sister dearly. Madly. We are betrothed.”

“When I read a novel I am not here. I am transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind's eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be-not here - Just Jane (Chapter Four Page 35)”

“And so...we prayed. And I added a silent prayer of my own, giving God thanks for the blessing of my father.”

“And as for writing my poetry, he claimed the toil of it was too much strain. Toil? Writing is my life. It is not toil. And he cannot stop me.”

“And though many women might enjoy the offering of such compliments, I did not want him to love me based on temporal things like a smile or voice or presence, things that could vanish through mood or an unexpected cloud. He must love me for the sake of love alone . . .”