WARNING: Reading this will give away the plot of Jane Eyre, which is a classic, and this, well, suffice to say that it is not. If, on the other hand, you have read the story and enjoy wasting your time, then please feel free.

CHAPTER 1: I Must Away to Thornfield

My agent has sent me notice. Urgent business calls me to Thornfield.
It is morning. The cool rays of the winter sun stream through the window and rest on Pilot's head who is fast asleep on the floor. I arise from my bed and look out to the fields of lavender, lately pruned, and then to the old olive tree in my garden. In springtime shoots will grow around it, much as children gather around their father. I think of the horse chestnut tree at Thornfield, with its massive trunk, where little birds seek its shelter and build their nests. I would be as one of those trees, and have my shoots gather around me, but, no, that is impossible. I am as a withered tree in a parched land, whose roots search for nourishment and for something to latch onto, finding only rockiness below.
In the distance I see the waters of the Mediterranean, azure against the cold bright sky. How I wish that this were my true home, but is not, and never will be. It is just as well that I return to England, to Thornfield, as horrible as it is. Though I am loathe to return to that accursed place, I am weary of the Continent. There is nothing that refreshes or revives me here. I will leave tomorrow, and when I do reach my true home I know that I will find no solace, no resting place. The embrace that I will receive will be when its stone-tomb walls close in on me; its only greeting, shrieks issuing from the third storey.
Why has God willed me to live thus, with this rage, this imprisonment to my fate, this futility, this unsettled existence? Must I spend the rest of my days roaming the Earth like a madman until the sun of my life sets? Nothing satisfies, least of all womankind, the coquettes, the seductresses, the mistresses with whom I have had the misfortune of defiling myself. The lot of them were false, trite and mercenary, not one whit to my taste (at least, not anymore). Surely I can find a woman who can accept me regardless of the true circumstances of my existence, if she can be found.
I must not think about that now. In a few days I will reach Calais and sail to England, and will by and by reach Thornfield. There I set matters straight and will away yet again.

Chapter 2: Bewitching My Horse

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