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soon

Posted Jan 19 2013 7:41am
I left Moor House at three o’clock Toms Cordones Men p.m., and soon after four I 
stood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival 
of the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst 
the silence of those solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it 
approach from a great distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a 
year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot— 
how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as I 
beckoned. I entered—not now obliged to part with my whole 
fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more on the road 
to Thornfield, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home. 

It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from 
Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding 
Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a 
wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges 
and large fields and low pastoral hills (how mild of feature and 
verdant of hue compared with the stern North-Midland moors of 
Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. 
Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure we were 
near my bourne. 
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