Aneterinanovelissomethinglikeanewseinaplay;andwhenIdrawupthecurtainthistime,reader,youmustfancyyouseearoomintheGeeInnatMillcote,withsuchlargefiguredpaperingonthewallsasinnroomshave;suchacarpet,suchfurniture,suentsoelpiece,suchprints,includingaportraitofGeetheThird,andahePrinceofWales,andarepresentationofthedeathofWolfe.Allthisisvisibletoyoubythelightofanoillamphangingfromtheceiling,andbythatofanexcellentfire,nearwhichIsitinmycloakandbo;mymuffandumbrellalieoable,andIamwarmingawaythenumbnessandchilltractedbysixteenhours’exposuretotherawnessofanOctoberday:IleftLowtonatfouro’clocka.m.,andtheMillcotetowncloowjuststriki.

    Reader,thoughIlookfortablyaodated,Iamranquilinmymind.Ithoughtwhenthecoachstoppedheretherewouldbesomeoomeetme;IlookedanxiouslyroundasIdesdedthewoodehe“boots”playvenience,expegtohearmynamepronounced,andtoseesomedescriptionewaitingtoveymetoThornfield.Nothingofthesortwasvisible;andwhenIaskedawaiterifanyonehadbeentoinquireafteraMissEyre,Iwasansweredintheive:soIhadnoresourcebuttorequesttobeshownintoaprivateroom:andhereIamwaiting,whileallsortsofdoubtsandfearsaretroublingmythoughts.

    Itisaverystraiontoinexperiencedyouthtofeelitselfquitealoheworld,cutadriftfromeverye,uaihertheporttowhichitisboundbereached,aedbymanyimpedimentsfromreturningtothatithasquitted.Thecharmofadventuresweetensthatsensation,theglowofpridewarmsit;butthehroboffeardisturbsit;andfearwithmebecamepredominantwhenhalf-an-hourelapsedandstillIwasalone.Ibethoughtmyselftthebell.

    “Isthereap