Setting out on the road, I could not help thinking of Mr Rochester's
despair when he found himself abandoned. I hated myself for wounding
him, and for perhaps driving him to a life of wickedness, or even death.
I wanted desperately to be with him, to comfort him, but somehow I made
myself keep walking, and when a coach passed, I arranged to travel on it
as far as my money would pay for. Inside the coach I cried the bitterest
tears of my life
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