![]() ![]() May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in that hour left my lips for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love. ![]() Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way. Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-rung tears as poured from mine. I asked for what sum he would take me there he said thirty shillings I answered I had but twenty well, he would try to make it do. I asked where it was going: the driver named a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. I stood up and lifted my hand it stopped. When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge and while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I had some fear-or hope-that here I should die: but I was soon up crawling forwards on my hands and knees, and then again raised to my feet-as eager and as determined as ever to reach the road. A weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way: fast, fast I went like one delirious. 344), when Jane runs away from Rochester afterwards, Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt (Chapter XXVII,p. As to my own will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and stifled the other. Still I could not turn, nor retrace one step. I had no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. What was I? In the midst of my pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates birds were emblems of love. Oh, that fear of his self-abandonment-far worse than my abandonment-how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast it tore me when I tried to extract it it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in. I could go back and be his comforter-his pride his redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin. As yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscovered. I longed to be his I panted to return: it was not too late I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement. I thought of him now-in his room-watching the sunrise hoping I should soon come to say I would stay with him and be his. He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge of the disseverment of bone and vein of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering-and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. But I looked neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. I believe it was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had put on when I left the house, were soon wet with dew. I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. If the case be otherwise, I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and call him brother. I speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass. Read Shmoop's Analysis of Volume 3, Chapter 1 The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become until he goes abroad. ![]()
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