I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master's--which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it could not derive warmth from his breast.
A szerelem úgy didergett bensőmben, mint hideg bölcsőjében egy beteg csecsemő, s a gyötrelemmel nem menekülhettem Mr. Rochester karjaiba, az ő szíve nem sugározhatott többé meleget az enyémbe.