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lse to go; I should be glad to leave it; but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman。”
“Perhaps you may—who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs。 Reed?”
“I think not; sir。”
“None belonging to your father?”
“I don’t know。 I asked Aunt Reed once; and she said possibly I might have some poor; low relations called Eyre; but she knew nothing about them。”
“If you had such; would you like to go to them?”
I reflected。 Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to children: they have not much idea of industrious; working; respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes; scanty food; fireless grates; rude manners; and debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation。
“No; I should not like to belong to poor people;” was my reply。
“Not even if they were kind to you?”
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like them; to adopt their manners; to be uneducated; to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no; I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste。
“But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?”
“I cannot tell; Aunt。 Reed says if I have any; they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging。”
“Would you like to
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