Meantime，let me ask myself one question- Which is better?- To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort- no struggle;- but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime，amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France，Mr. Rochester"s mistress; delirious with his love half my time- for he would- oh，yes，he would have loved me well for a while. He did love me- no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty，youth，and grace- for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me- it is what no man besides will ever be.- But where am I wandering，and what am I saying，and above all，feeling?

Whether is it better，I ask，to be a slave in a fool"s paradise at Marseilles- fevered with delusive bliss one hour- suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next- or to be a village-schoolmistress，free and honest，in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of England?