en find yourself elected tary confidant of your acquaintances’ secrets: people inctively find out, as I  it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to listen oo, t you listen  scorn of tion, but e sympat ting and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.”

    “his, sir?”

    “I kno  as freely as if I ing my ts in a diary. You ances; so I s you see I . e o remain cool: I turned desperate; ted. Noes my disgust by ry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself t I am better to confess t ood firm—God knoed to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life.”

    “Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.”

    “It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform—I rengt for t—if—but o get pleasure out of life: and I  it, cost  may.”

    “te still more, sir.”

    “Possibly: yet , fres it as s and freshe moor.”

    “It ing—it aste bitter, sir.”

    “ried it.  of tter as taking one from telpiece). “You  to preaco me, you neope, t  passed tely unacquainted s mysteries.”

    “I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brougence.”

    “And ion t flittered across my brain  ion ratemptation: it .  comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it  on t. I t admit so fair a guest rance to my .”

    “Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.”

    “Once more,  instinct do you pretend to distinguisween a guide and a seducer?”

    “I judged by your countenance, sir,  en to it.”

    “Not at all—it bear