Джейн Ейр

Chapter XII

           IwasamilefromThornfield,inalanenotedforwildrosesinsummer,fornutsandblackberriesinautumn,andevennowpossessingafewcoraltreasuresinhipsandhaws,butwhosebestwinterdelightlayinitsuttersolitudeandleaflessrepose. Ifabreathofairstirred,itmadenosoundhere;fortherewasnotaholly,notanevergreentorustle,andthestrippedhawthornandhazelbusheswereasstillasthewhite,wornstoneswhichcausewayedthemiddleofthepath. Farandwide,oneachside,therewereonlyfields,wherenocattlenowbrowsed;andthelittlebrownbirds,whichstirredoccasionallyinthehedge,lookedlikesinglerussetleavesthathadforgottentodrop. 

           Thislaneinclinedup-hillallthewaytoHay; havingreachedthemiddle,Isatdownonastilewhichledthenceintoafield. Gatheringmymantleaboutme,andshelteringmyhandsinmymuff,Ididnotfeelthecold,thoughitfrozekeenly;aswasattestedbyasheetoficecoveringthecauseway,wherealittlebrooklet,nowcongealed,hadoverflowedafterarapidthawsomedayssince. FrommyseatIcouldlookdownonThornfield:thegreyandbattlementedhallwastheprincipalobjectinthevalebelowme;itswoodsanddarkrookeryroseagainstthewest. Ilingeredtillthesunwentdownamongstthetrees,andsankcrimsonandclearbehindthem. Ithenturnedeastward. 

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