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