painting in oil

As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I
felt daily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle
half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force
myself to the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural
vocation. He wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach;
it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing
was as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct and
classic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint
and solemn lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of
late it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil
sat in my heart and drained my happiness at its source- the evil of
suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst
these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was
still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse,
nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name
graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it