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pectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery。 The host was a respectable…looking； middle…aged man。
“You know Thornfield Hall； of course？” I managed to say at last。
“Yes； ma’am； I lived there once。”
“Did you？” Not in my time； I thought： you are a stranger to me。
“I was the late Mr。 Rochester’s butler；” he added。
The late！ I seem to have received； with full force； the blow I had been trying to evade。
“The late！” gasped。 “Is he dead？”
“I mean the present gentleman； Mr。 Edward’s father；” he explained。 I breathed again： my blood resumed its flow。 Fully assured by these words that Mr。 Edward—my Mr。 Rochester （God bless him； wherever he was！）—was at least alive： was； in short； “the present gentleman。” Gladdening words！ It seemed I could hear all that was to e—whatever the disclosures might be—with parative tranquillity。 Since he was not in the grave； I could bear； I thought； to learn that he was at the Antipodes。
“Is Mr。 Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now？” I asked； knowing； of course； what the answer would be； but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was。
“No； ma’am—oh； no！ No one is living there。 I suppose you are a stranger in these parts； or you would have heard what happened last autumn；—Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin： it was burnt down just about harvest…time。 A dreadful calamity！ such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed
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