see you ed me, I  of you makes me sick, and t you treated me y.”

    “, Jane Eyre?”

    “ is trut I can do  one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you y. I s me back—rougly t me back—into to my dying day; t, ress, ‘ Reed!’ And t punis you made me suffer because your ruck me—knocked me doell anybody  tale. People t you are bad, ed. You are deceitful!”

    Ere I o expand, to exult, rangest sense of freedom, of triump. It seemed as if an invisible bond , and t I ruggled out into uny. Not  cause iment: Mrs. Reed looked friging up o and fro, and even ting her face as if she would cry.

    “Jane, you are under a mistake: ter remble so violently? ould you like to drink some er?”

    “No, Mrs. Reed.”

    “Is to be your friend.”

    “Not you. You told Mr. Brockle I er, a deceitful disposition; and I’ll let everybody at Lowood know w you are, and w you have done.”

    “Jane, you don’t understand t be corrected for ts.”

    “Deceit is not my fault!” I cried out in a savage, high voice.

    “But you are passionate, Jane, t you must allourn to ttle.”

    “I am not your dear; I cannot lie doo sce to live here.”

    “I o voce; and gatly quitted tment.

    I  t  battle I , and t victory I ood aude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but t as did ted t quarrel s elders, as I  give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I  experiencing afterion. A ridge of lig emblem of my mind er ted as meetly my subsequent condition, ed and i