I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?--where was her life?--where were her prospects?
Ero in camera mia come al solito, non ero stata né colpita, né offesa, eppure dov'era la Jane Eyre di un tempo? dove erano la sua vita, le sue speranze?