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Published by tilottoma1234
jane eyre... one of my favorite books of all time...
jane eyre... one of my favorite books of all time...

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Published by: tilottoma1234 on Dec 31, 2009
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There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering,indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs.Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had broughtwith it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercisewas now out of the question.I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadfulto me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, anda heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by theconsciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in thedrawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlingsabout her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy.Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be underthe necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie,and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in goodearnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive andsprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she reallymust exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, littlechildren.""What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked."Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something trulyforbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere;and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent."A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained abookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be onestored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, Isat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearlyclose, I was shrined in double retirement.Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were theclear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear Novemberday. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspectof that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near ascene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping awaywildly before a long and lamentable blast.

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