I've been made to eat my words;
Jane Eyre really isn't all that bad so long as the reader is able to enjoy the titular character becoming overwhelmed by her own faculties four and five times a chapter. She is forever on the verge of fainting or vomiting from excitment or worry or, even less plausible, appreciation. It really shouldn't be as funny as it is, especially for a book about an overwrought orphan.
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