Sneer to the last, Devil. Do you think that I don't know? She thirsts for anyone -- not for me...
She'll loosen her black hair, and laugh and coax and flatter (a mad girl. She'll not care who she's loving). She'll moan and cry and give herself as no sane woman would -- or could. [...]
I tell you she loves no one, anyone. I could not touch her. Excepting as the hurricane will touch that tree -- and break it. You say I did? No. That was love's fierce play. Now I'll do it.
She'll not laugh in the sun again. She'll not dress up and smile at herself in that damnable looking-glass. So pleased, so satisfied.
Vain, silly creature. Made for loving? Yes, but she'll have no lover, for I don't want her and she'll see no other.
Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea