” The new face, too, was like a new picture
introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all
the others hanging there:  firstly, because it was masculine; and,
secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern.  I had it still
before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into the post-
office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home.  When
I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened,
with an idea that a horse’s hoofs might ring on the causeway again,
and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog,
might be again apparent:  I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow
before me, rising up still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I
heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees
round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I glanced down in the
direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-front, caught a
light kindling in a window:  it reminded me that I was late, and I
hurried on.”

A  new face, like a new picture hanging in the gallery of my memory…I loved that. How many faces have come before ours and forever changed a predisposition, a thought, a habit of mind, by their very uniqueness, that is, when they have been bold enough to keep their uniqueness.

Yeah. Great, really great writing. Go, Bronte.(We really should cheer on the writers like we do the sports teams).


About singinjenny

singin with good reason View all posts by singinjenny

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