I stared into the mirror, and the face that was looking back at me … how shall I describe it? Plain, common; the one I imagined Jane Eyre saw every morning she woke and every night she went to bed and so many young women have done before her and ever since. A mere face in the crowd; forgettable. Yet, to me, she counts. Oh, she counts even more because of this! Don’t you know, dearest soul, how precious you are to me?