Ruined

I cannot help but admire Charlotte's publication of Jane Eyre. While I have not yet met the entirety of the book with completion in reading, I have been more than satisfied with the romance to be found within its pages (a matter of import to a single young woman). However, as I was pondering the novel in English 495, the one male in the class found it incumbent to discuss how the book shall end, and what he thinks of it. He must have failed to see the look of horror cross my face; this detail did not go unnoticed by my professor. She reminded him gently that some of us are reading the text for the first time. The boy smirked, as if he enjoyed the knowledge that he has read amongst the Bronte authors more thoroughly than his female counterparts, and would not in future-time hold back his comments, but rather spoil each novel until there is none left to be enjoyed. I have concluded I must read the next assigned novel, Wuthering Heights, with greater fervor and diligence, so that its ending is not ruined as Jane Eyre's hitherto has been.