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pectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery。 The host was a respectable…looking; middle…aged man。

“You know Thornfield Hall; of course?” I managed to say at last。

“Yes; ma’am; I lived there once。”

“Did you?” Not in my time; I thought: you are a stranger to me。

“I was the late Mr。 Rochester’s butler;” he added。

The late! I seem to have received; with full force; the blow I had been trying to evade。

“The late!” gasped。 “Is he dead?”

“I mean the present gentleman; Mr。 Edward’s father;” he explained。 I breathed again: my blood resumed its flow。 Fully assured by these words that Mr。 Edward—my Mr。 Rochester (God bless him; wherever he was!)—was at least alive: was; in short; “the present gentleman。” Gladdening words! It seemed I could hear all that was to e—whatever the disclosures might be—with parative tranquillity。 Since he was not in the grave; I could bear; I thought; to learn that he was at the Antipodes。

“Is Mr。 Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?” I asked; knowing; of course; what the answer would be; but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was。

“No; ma’am—oh; no! No one is living there。 I suppose you are a stranger in these parts; or you would have heard what happened last autumn;—Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest…time。 A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed

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