"That was wrong, Miss Jane."
"It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend:
she has been my foe."
"O Miss Jane! don't say so!"
"Good-bye to Gateshead!" cried I, as we passed through the hall
and went out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern,
whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent
thaw. Raw and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered
as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter's
lodge: when we reached it, we found the porter's wife just kindling
her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening
before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of
six, and shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of
wheels announced the coming coach; I went to the door and watched
its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.
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