"Yet would to God there was an end of all this!" added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.
This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard.
I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house.
Again, however, I heard him call "Jane!"
He had opened feel portal and stood at it, waiting for me.
"Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments," he said.
That house is a mere dungeon. Don't you feel it so?
It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.
"The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes," he answered, and you see it through a charmed medium.
You cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs.
That the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark.
Now here (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) all is real, sweet, and pure.
He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side,
and a border on the other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses, pansies,
mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs.
They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them.