“
She picked up the book beside her. Jane Eyre. Used, bought recently in a bookshop in Camden Passage, shabby nineteenth-century binding, pages bearing vague stains, fingered, smoothed. She opened the book to the place she left it when the taxicab pulled up.
“My daughter, flee temptation.”
“Mother, I will,” Jane responded, as the moon turned to woman.
The fiction had tricked her. Drawn her in so that she became Jane.
Yes. The parallels were there. Was she not heroic Jane? Betrayed. Left to wan
...more
”
― No Telephone to Heaven
― No Telephone to Heaven
