Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these
changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with
me; because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse; nor a
sand-traced effigy storms could wash away: it was a name graven on a
tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving to
know what had become of him followed me everywhere; when I was at
Morton, I re-entered my cottage every evening to think of that; and now
at Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to brood over it.
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Emma1