Charlotte and I sat like that for a long time, remembering.
It did not happen. At Christmas she fell ill, and in the New Year she was worse. She felt sick all the time because of the baby, and she ate nothing. She lay in bed all day, hot and coughing. Arthur Nicholls cared for her wonderfully - I think he often stayed awake all night. But it did not help.
On 31st March 1855 the last of my six children died. It was early in the morning. Arthur Nicholls was sitting by her bed, and I was standing by the door. She was asleep with her hand in his. Her face was very thin and pale.
She opened her eyes and saw him. Then she coughed, and I saw fear in her face.
'Oh God,' she whispered. 'I am not going to die, am I? Please don't take me away from Arthur now - we have been so happy.'
Those were the last words she ever said. A little while later, I walked slowly out of the house. As I went into the graveyard, the church bell began to ring. It was ringing to tell Haworth and all the world that Charlotte Brontë was dead.
"Gerçekte ne olduğunu kaos sana gösteremez. O yüzden geleceği gösteriyor, neler olacağını gösteriyor. Kaos, gelecek günlerden korkmanı, yakınlarının başına gelecek şeylere karşı duyduğun korkunun seni yönetmesini, sana hükmetmesini istiyor. Kaos bu yüzden sana o düşleri yolluyor. Düşlerinde ne gördüğünü bana şimdi göstereceksin. Ve korkacaksın. Ama sonra anımsayacak ve korkunun üstesinden geleceksin."