Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman — almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate.
The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.
But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation — this total prostration of hope.
Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand — when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find — all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions.
And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery.
More desolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast.
Not to deceive myself, I must reply — No: I felt desolate to a degree.
It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot — how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless!
At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite a desolate spot.
The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate spot."
Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.
I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss and peace once more.
But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned — my life dark, lonely, hopeless — my soul athirst and forbidden to drink — my heart famished and never to be fed.
I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves more — never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay.