SometimeiernoonIraisedmyhead,andlookingroundahewesternsungildingthesignofitsdeeonthewall,Iasked,“WhatamItodo?”

    Buttheanswermymindgave—“LeaveThoronce”—rompt,sodread,thatIstoppedmyears.IsaidIcouldnotbearsuchwordsnow.“ThatIamnotEdwardRochester’sbrideistheleastpartofmywoe,”Ialleged:“thatIhavewakeofmostgloriousdreams,andfoundthemallvoidandvain,isahorrorIcouldbearandmaster;butthatImustleavehimdecidedly,instantly,entirely,isintolerable.Iotdoit.”

    But,then,avoicewithinmeaverredthatIcoulddoitandforetoldthatIshoulddoit.Iwrestledwithmyownresolution:IwaobeweakthatImightavoidtheawfulpassageoffurthersufferingIsawlaidoutforme;andsce,turyrant,heldPassionbythethroat,toldhertauntingly,shehadyetbutdippedherdaintyfootintheslough,andsworethatwiththatarmofironhewouldthrustherdowntounsoundeddepthsofagony.

    “Letmebetornaway,”thenIcried.“Letanotherhelpme!”

    “No;youshalltearyourselfaway,noneshallhelpyou:youshallyourselfpluckoutyhteye;yourselfcutoffyhthand:yourheartshallbethevictim,andyouthepriesttotransfixit.”

    Iroseupsuddenly,terror-struckatthesolitudewhichsoruthlessajudgehaunted,—atthesilencewhichsoawfulavoicefilled.MyheadswamasIstooderect.IperceivedthatIwassiingfromexcitementandinanitiohermeatnordrinkhadpassedmylipsthatday,forIhadtakennobreakfast.And,withastrangepang,Inowreflectedthat,longasIhadbeenshutuphere,nomessagehadbeeoaskhowIwas,ortoioedown:notevenlittleAdèlehadtappedatthedoor;notevenMrs.Fairfaxhadsoughtme.“Friendsalwaysfetthosewhomfortuneforsakes,”Imurmure