Chapter XI

           Anewchapterinanovelissomethinglikeanewsceneinaplay; andwhenIdrawupthecurtainthistime,reader,youmustfancyyouseearoomintheGeorgeInnatMillcote,withsuchlargefiguredpaperingonthewallsasinnroomshave;suchacarpet,suchfurniture,suchornamentsonthemantelpiece,suchprints,includingaportraitofGeorgetheThird,andanotherofthePrinceofWales,andarepresentationofthedeathofWolfe. Allthisisvisibletoyoubythelightofanoillamphangingfromtheceiling,andbythatofanexcellentfire,nearwhichIsitinmycloakandbonnet;mymuffandumbrellalieonthetable,andIamwarmingawaythenumbnessandchillcontractedbysixteenhours’exposuretotherawnessofanOctoberday:IleftLowtonatfouro’clocka.m.,andtheMillcotetownclockisnowjuststrikingeight. 

           Reader,thoughIlookcomfortablyaccommodated,Iamnotverytranquilinmymind. Ithoughtwhenthecoachstoppedheretherewouldbesomeonetomeetme;IlookedanxiouslyroundasIdescendedthewoodenstepsthe"boots"placedformyconvenience,expectingtohearmynamepronounced,andtoseesomedescriptionofcarriagewaitingtoconveymetoThornfield. Nothingofthesortwasvisible;andwhenIaskedawaiterifanyonehadbeentoinquireafteraMissEyre,Iwasansweredinthenegative: soIhadnoresourcebuttorequesttobeshownintoaprivateroom: andhereIamwaiting,whileallsortsofdoubtsandfearsaretroublingmythoughts. 

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