One of the charms of Victorian literature is the constant dealings and tempestuous words mingling with reasons and sentiments that exist within and without the minds of individuals. I think these stages of concessions send us to confusions but at the same time flourish a sense of joy!

I am married now, and settled down as Mrs. Huntingdon of Grassdale Manor. I have had eight weeks’ experience of matrimony. And do I regret the step I have taken? No, though I must confess, in my secret heart, that Arthur is not what I thought him at first, and if I had known him in the beginning as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should have loved him, and if I loved him first, and then made the discovery, I fear I should have thought it my duty not to have married him. To be sure I might have known him, for every one was willing enough to tell me about him, and he himself was no accomplished hypocrite, but I was wilfully blind; and now, instead of regretting that I did not discern his full character before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am glad, for it has saved me a great deal of battling with my conscience, and a great deal of consequent trouble and pain; and, whatever I ought to have done, my duty now is plainly to love him and to cleave to him, and this just tallies with my inclination.

– The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Anne Brontë