The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.
“Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape—this is her size—”
“And this her voice,” I added. “She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.”
“Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,” was all he said.
“My dear master,” I answered, “I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out—I am come back to you.”
“In truth?—in the flesh? My living Jane?”
“You touch me, sir,—you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?”
“My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.”
“Which I never will, sir, from this day.”