the last supper painting

the last supper painting
If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and
sincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face,
turned to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to them. If Miss
Ingram had been a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour,
kindness, sense, I should have had one vital struggle with two tigers-
jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should
have admired her- acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for
the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper
would have been my admiration- the more truly tranquil my the last supper painting
the last supper painting
quiescence. But as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram's
efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester, to witness their repeated
failure- herself unconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying
that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming
herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled
further and further what she wished to allure- to witness this, was to
be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.
Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded.
Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and the last supper painting