Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

CHAPTER III

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare (waking with the feeling of coming out of a terrible nightmare), and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars (and seeing before me a dreadful red glow crossed with thick black bars). I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water (speaking with a hollow ring, as though damped by rushing wind or water): agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties (alarm, confusion, and above everything terror had scrambled my senses). Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me (Before long I realised someone was holding me); lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before (lifting me and propping me up to sit — and more gently than I had ever been lifted or held before). I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved (Five minutes more and the fog of confusion cleared): I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire (the red blaze was only the nursery fire). It was night: a candle burnt on the table (It was night, and a candle burned on the table); Bessie stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me (Bessie stood at the foot of the bed with a bowl in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair by my pillow, bending over me).

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and security (I felt a relief past words — a calming certainty of being protected and safe), when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed (a person not of Gateshead and no relation of Mrs. Reed). Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been (though her being there was far less hateful to me than Abbot's, say, would have been)), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary (I studied the gentleman's face and knew him: it was Mr. Lloyd, a medicine-maker and healer), sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physician (whom Mrs. Reed sometimes called in when the servants were unwell; for herself and her children she hired a proper doctor).

“Well, who am I?” he asked.

I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand (I said his name and held out my hand at the same time): he took it, smiling and saying, “We shall do very well by-and-by (We shall be quite well before long).” Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbed during the night (he ordered her to take great care that nothing disturbed me in the night). Having given some further directions, and intimated that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my grief (After a few more instructions, and a promise to call again next day, he left — to my sorrow): I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow (I had felt so sheltered and so befriended while he sat by my pillow); and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down (and as the door closed behind him the whole room darkened and my heart sank again, weighed down by a sadness past words).

“Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?” asked Bessie, rather softly (Bessie asked, quite gently).

Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough (I hardly dared answer, fearing her next words might be harsh). “I will try.”

“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”

“No, thank you, Bessie.”

“Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o’clock (for it is past midnight); but you may call me if you want anything in the night (but call me if you need anything in the night).”

Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question (Amazing politeness, this! It gave me courage to ask a question).

“Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?”

“You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you’ll be better soon, no doubt (You made yourself ill in the red room with crying, I suppose; you will be better soon, no doubt).”

Bessie went into the housemaid’s apartment, which was near. I heard her say (Bessie went into the housemaid's room close by. I heard her say)—

“Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery (she begs Sarah, the housemaid, to come sleep in the nursery); I daren’t for my life be alone with that poor child to-night (I dare not for my life be alone with that poor child tonight): she might die; it’s such a strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard (it is so strange, her taking that fit — I wonder if she saw something. The mistress was rather too hard).”

Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed (Sarah came back with her and they both got into bed); they were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed (I caught scraps of their talk, and could work out only too clearly what they were discussing).

“Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished (Something passed by her, all in white, and disappeared)”—“A great black dog behind him”—“Three loud raps on the chamber door (Three loud knocks on the bedroom door)”—“A light in the churchyard just over his grave,” &c., &c.

At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness (For me the hours of that long night crawled by with sleep never coming); ear, eye, and mind were alike strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel (ear, eye, and mind all stretched tight with dread — dread of the kind only children can feel).

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room (No serious or lasting bodily illness followed the red-room business); it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day (it only dealt my nerves a shock whose echo I feel to this day). Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did (to you I owe some terrible stabs of inward suffering — yet I ought to forgive you, for you did not know what you did): while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities (while tearing my heart apart, you believed you were only pulling up my bad leanings by the root).

Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth (and sat bundled in a warm wrap by the nursery fireplace). I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind (My body felt weak and worn out, but my worse sickness was a misery of mind past speaking): a wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed (a misery that kept drawing silent tears from me; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than the next came). Yet, I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there (And yet, I thought, I should have been happy, for none of the Reeds were at home), they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama (they had all driven out in the carriage with their mama). Abbot, too, was sewing in another room (Abbot too was off sewing in another room), and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness (moving here and there, putting toys away and tidying drawers, threw me now and then a word of unusual kindness). This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging (All this should have been a heaven of peace to me, used as I was to endless telling-off and unthanked heavy work); but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably (my worn-out nerves were in such a state that no calm could quiet them and no pleasure could brighten them).

Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate (a small fruit pie on a certain brightly painted china plate), whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration (whose painted bird of paradise, nested in a ring of trumpet-flowers and rosebuds, had always stirred my warmest admiration); and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege (a plate I had often begged to hold and study close up, and had always before been judged unworthy to touch). This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it (Now this precious dish was set on my knee, and I was warmly invited to eat the ring of fine pastry on it). Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! (Useless kindness! — coming, like most kindnesses long delayed and often wished for, too late!) I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded (the bird's feathers and the flowers' colours seemed strangely dulled): I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book (Bessie asked whether I wanted a book): the word book acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s Travels from the library (the word book stirred me for a moment, and I begged her to bring Gulliver's Travels from the library). This book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered it a narrative of facts (I had read that book over and over with delight. I took it for a record of true events), and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales (and found in it a seam of interest deeper than fairy tales gave me): for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks (for as for the elves — having hunted them in vain among foxglove leaves and bell-flowers, under mushrooms and beneath the creeping ivy that blankets old corners of wall), I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant (I had at last settled on the sad truth that they had all left England for some wild country of thicker woods and fewer people); whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag (while Lilliput and Brobdignag — the tiny land and the giant land in the story) being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth’s surface (being, as I firmly believed, solid places on the earth's surface), I doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes (I never doubted that one day, by a long sea journey, I might see with my own eyes) the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm (the miniature people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one kingdom); and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other (and the grain fields tall as forests, the huge guard dogs, the monster cats, and the tower-tall men and women of the other). Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find (Yet when that beloved book was put into my hand now — when I turned its pages and looked in its wonderful pictures for the magic I had always found before)—all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps (everything was strange and grim: the giants were bony hollow-eyed monsters, the little people spiteful and frightening creatures), Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions (and Gulliver himself utterly alone, a wanderer in the most fearful and dangerous of lands). I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart (I shut the book, no longer daring to read it, and laid it on the table next to the untouched pie).

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room (By now Bessie was done with the dusting and tidying), and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll (full of splendid scraps of silk and shiny cloth, and began making a new little hat for Georgiana's doll). Meantime she sang: her song was (As she worked she sang; her song went)—

“In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago (the song recalls carefree days of wandering out of doors, long ago).”

I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice (I had often heard the song, always with real delight, for Bessie had a sweet voice),—at least, I thought so. But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness (I now heard in its tune a sadness past describing). Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly (lost in her sewing, she sang the repeated line very low and very slow); “A long time ago” came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn (came out like the saddest falling notes of a burial hymn). She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one (She moved on to another story-song, this one truly heavy with sorrow).

“My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way, and the mountains are wild (the song: my feet ache and my limbs are tired; the road is long and the mountains wild); Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child (soon the dusk will close, moonless and grey, over the path of the poor orphan child).

Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled? (why did they send me so far and so alone, up where the open hills spread and grey rocks are heaped?) Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child (men are hard of heart, and only kind angels watch over the steps of a poor orphan child).

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild (yet the night wind blows soft and far off; there are no clouds, and clear stars shine gently), God, in His mercy, protection is showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child (God in His mercy is showing His protection, comfort and hope to the poor orphan child).

Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled (even if I fall crossing the broken bridge, or wander into the swamps, tricked by false lights), Still will my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child (still my heavenly Father, with promise and blessing, will gather the poor orphan child to His breast).

There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled (one thought should lend me strength, though I am stripped of both shelter and family); Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child (heaven is a home, and rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child).”

“Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,” said Bessie as she finished. She might as well have said to the fire (She might just as well have told the fire not to burn), “don’t burn!” but how could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? (but how could she guess the sick inward suffering that had me in its grip?) In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again (Later in the morning Mr. Lloyd called again).

“What, already up!” said he, as he entered the nursery (he said as he came into the nursery). “Well, nurse, how is she?”

Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

“Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name is Jane, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.”

“Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about? Have you any pain?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in the carriage,” interposed Bessie (Bessie put in).

“Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness (why, she is too old for such baby crossness).”

I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I answered promptly (and with my pride stung by the false accusation, I answered at once), “I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage (Never in my life did I cry over that: I hate carriage rides). I cry because I am miserable.”

“Oh fie, Miss! (Oh shame on you, Miss!)” said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled (The good medicine-man looked a little puzzled). I was standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now (he fixed his eyes on me steadily: small grey eyes, not very bright, though I expect I would call them sharp today): he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, he said (his face was rough-cut but kindly. After studying me at his ease, he said)—

“What made you ill yesterday?”

“She had a fall,” said Bessie, again putting in her word (said Bessie, adding her word again).

“Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can’t she manage to walk at her age? (A fall! Why, that is baby stuff again! Can she not manage to walk at her age?) She must be eight or nine years old.”

“I was knocked down,” was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride (came my blunt answer, forced out by another stab of wounded pride); “but that did not make me ill,” I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff (while Mr. Lloyd took a pinch of powdered tobacco to sniff).

As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for the servants’ dinner (As he slipped the little box back into his vest pocket, a loud bell rang for the servants' dinner); he knew what it was (he recognised the bell at once). “That’s for you, nurse,” said he; “you can go down; I’ll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back (I shall keep Miss Jane occupied with a talking-to until you return).”

Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall (but she had to go, for being on time to meals was strictly enforced at Gateshead Hall).

“The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?” pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone (Mr. Lloyd went on once Bessie had left).

“I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark (They locked me in a room where a ghost lives, until after dark).”

I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time (A smile and a dark look crossed Mr. Lloyd's face together).

“Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?”

“Of Mr. Reed’s ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there (he died in that room, and his body lay there before burial). Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it (Neither Bessie nor anyone else will enter it at night if they can avoid it); and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,—so cruel that I think I shall never forget it (and it was cruel to lock me in alone without a candle — so cruel I think I shall never forget it).”

“Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?”

“No: but night will come again before long: and besides,—I am unhappy,—very unhappy, for other things.”

“What other things? Can you tell me some of them?”

How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frame any answer! (How I longed to answer that question fully! And how hard it was to shape any answer at all!) Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings (Children can feel, but they cannot take their feelings apart); and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in words (and if they half manage it in thought, they cannot put the result into words). Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it (But afraid of losing this first and only chance to ease my grief by sharing it), I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response (I managed, after a troubled pause, to shape a thin answer — though true as far as it went).

“For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters.”

“You have a kind aunt and cousins.”

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced (I paused again, then awkwardly got out)—

“But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room.”

Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box (Mr. Lloyd brought out his tobacco box a second time).

“Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house? (Do you not find Gateshead Hall a lovely house?)” asked he. “Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at? (Are you not grateful to live in such a fine place?)”

“It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here than a servant.”

“Pooh! you can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place? (Nonsense! Surely you are not silly enough to want to leave such a splendid place?)”

“If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it (I would happily go); but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman (Had I anywhere else to go I would gladly leave it; but I can never escape Gateshead until I am grown).”

“Perhaps you may—who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?”

“I think not, sir.”

“None belonging to your father?”

“I don’t know: I asked Aunt Reed once (I cannot say: I asked Aunt Reed once), and she said possibly I might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about them (she said I might perhaps have some poor, low relations named Eyre, but she knew nothing of them).”

“If you had such, would you like to go to them?”

I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to children (I thought it over. Poverty looks grim to grown-ups, and grimmer still to children): they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty (they have little notion of hard-working, decent poverty); they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices (to them the word means only torn clothes, too little food, cold empty fireplaces, rough manners, and low shameful habits): poverty for me was synonymous with degradation (for me, poverty and disgrace meant the same thing).

“No; I should not like to belong to poor people,” was my reply.

“Not even if they were kind to you?”

I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being kind (I could not see how poor people could afford kindness); and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated (and to learn to talk like them, take up their ways, go unschooled), to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead (to grow up like one of the poor women I sometimes saw feeding their babies or washing clothes at the cottage doors of Gateshead village): no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste (no — I was not brave enough to buy freedom at the cost of my station in life).

“But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?”

“I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging (Aunt Reed says if I have any they must be a shabby begging lot, and I would not like to go begging).”

“Would you like to go to school?”

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was (I thought again: I hardly knew what school was): Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise (Bessie sometimes described it as a place where young ladies sat strapped to boards for straight backs and had to be endlessly proper and exact): John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed’s tastes were no rule for mine (John Reed hated his school and cursed his schoolmaster; but John Reed's tastes were no guide for mine), and if Bessie’s accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling (and if Bessie's reports of school discipline — picked up from the young ladies of a family she had served before Gateshead — were somewhat frightening), her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive (her details of the skills those same young ladies had gained seemed to me just as tempting). She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed (She bragged of beautiful paintings of countryside and flowers done by them); of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate (of songs they could sing and music they could play, little bags they could weave, French books they could turn into English); till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened (until listening stirred me to want the same for myself). Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life (it meant a long journey, a complete break from Gateshead, a doorway into a new life).

“I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion of my musings (was the spoken end of my thinking).

“Well, well! who knows what may happen?” said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. “The child ought to have change of air and scene (The child needs a change of air and surroundings),” he added, speaking to himself (he added under his breath — her nerves are in a poor state); “nerves not in a good state.”

Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel-walk (and at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel drive).

“Is that your mistress, nurse?” asked Mr. Lloyd. “I should like to speak to her before I go.”

Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out (Bessie invited him into the morning room and led the way). In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent to school (From what happened later, I take it that in his talk with Mrs. Reed the good man dared to suggest sending me to school); and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted (and the suggestion was no doubt taken up readily enough); for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, “Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child (The mistress, she would bet, was glad enough to be rid of such a tiresome, bad-natured child), who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand (who always looked as if she were watching everyone and hatching secret plots).” Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes (Abbot, I believe, took me for a kind of baby Guy Fawkes — the famous plotter who tried to blow up Parliament).

On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot’s communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman (my father had been a poor churchman); that my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match beneath her (my mother had married him against her family's wishes, who thought the match beneath her); that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling (my grandfather Reed was so angered by her defiance that he cut her off without a penny); that after my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated (my father caught typhus fever visiting the poor of the big factory town where his church post lay), and where that disease was then prevalent (where that disease was then widespread): that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other (my mother caught it from him, and the two died within a month of each other).

Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said (Hearing this story, Bessie sighed and said), “Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot (Poor Miss Jane deserves some pity too, Abbot).”

“Yes,” responded Abbot; “if she were a nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness (were she a sweet, pretty child, one might pity her friendless state); but one really cannot care for such a little toad as that (but no one can truly care about a little toad like that).”

“Not a great deal, to be sure (Not much, that is true),” agreed Bessie: “at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition (a beauty like Miss Georgiana, at least, would touch the heart more in the same plight).”

“Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana! (Yes, I adore Miss Georgiana!)” cried the fervent Abbot (cried Abbot with feeling). “Little darling!—with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as she has; just as if she were painted!—Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper (as if she were a painted picture! Bessie, I could just fancy melted cheese on toast for supper).”

“So could I—with a roast onion. Come, we’ll go down (So could I — with a roasted onion. Come, we shall go down).” They went.