I consider it a serious sign of addiction that I start laughing aloud at some seemingly ordinary passages of Charlotte Brontė's Jane Eyre. Like these:
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It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moon-light night when I heard the cry...
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There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.
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Though haughty Hate should strike me down,
Right, bar approach to me,
And grinding Might, with furious frown,
Swear endless enmity.
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"But some stories, small, simple ones about setting out on adventures or people doing wonders, tales of miracles and monsters, have outlasted all the people who told them, and some of them have outlasted the lands in which they were created."
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