Tarzanxshameofjane1995engl Upd ((free)) Now

It wasn't shame about him . She realised that now. It was shame about her —the Jane she had been in the jungle. That Jane had been brave. That Jane had not cared if her hair was tangled or her nails were broken. That Jane had looked at a man who could not recite Keats or use a fork, and had seen everything .

The shame came later, in London. It came when Chloe asked, "So, was he, you know… feral ?" It came when her father, in a clipped, academic tone, referred to Tarzan as "your interesting anthropological phase." It came when she saw a documentary on Channel 4 about "noble savages" and felt her face burn. tarzanxshameofjane1995engl upd

She looked at the video cassette on the coffee table. The English Patient. It was the film everyone was talking about. Her friend, Chloe, had lent it to her with a knowing look. "It's about passion, Jane. Real passion. The kind that ruins you properly." It wasn't shame about him

The rain hadn't stopped for three days. Jane Porter sat cross-legged on the worn Oriental rug of her Notting Hill flat, surrounded by the debris of her former life: a half-unpacked trunk from the Congo, a cracked leather journal, and a postcard of the London Eye that someone had sent her as a joke. She had been back for six months. Six months of carpet tubes, instant coffee, and the low, humming shame that followed her like a housefly. That Jane had been brave

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