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Posted Jan 18 2013 7:26am
A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my clarisonic mia outlet return to Thornfield 
Hall. Nothing was said of the master’s marriage, and I saw no 
preparation going on for such an event. Almost every day I asked 
Mrs. Fairfax if she had yet heard anything decided: her answer 
was always in the negative. Once she said she had actually put the 
question to Mr. Rochester as to when he was going to bring his 
bride home; but he had answered her only by a joke and one of his 
queer looks, and she could not tell what to make of him. 

One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no 
journeyings backward and forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be 
sure it was twenty miles off, on the borders of another county; but 
what was that distance to an ardent lover? To so practised and 
indefatigable a horseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a 
morning’s ride. I began to cherish hopes I had no right to 
conceive: that the match was broken off; that rumour had been 
mistaken; that one or both parties had changed their minds. I used 
to look at my master’s face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I 
could not remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear 
of clouds or evil feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupil spent 
with him, I lacked spirits and sank into inevitable dejection, he 
became even gay. Never had he called me more frequently to his 
presence; never been kinder to me when there—and, alas! never 

Asplendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, 
suns so radiant as were then seen in long succession, 
seldom favour even singly, our wave-girt land. It was as if 
a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of 
glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of 
Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were 
green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in 
their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, 
contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows 
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