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Posted Jan 18 2013 1:01am
This lane inclined up-hill all the way ash uk to Hay; having reached the 
middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field. 
Gathering my mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my 
muff, I did not feel the cold, though it froze keenly; as was attested 
by a sheet of ice covering the causeway, where a little brooklet, 
now congealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days 
since. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and 
battlemented hall was the principal object in the vale below me; its 
woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till the 
sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear 
behind them. I then turned eastward. 

On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a 
cloud, but brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, 
half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it 
was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear 


plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt the flow of 
currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell: but there were 
many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their 
passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest 
streams, the sough of the most remote. 
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