ted。

“Sit　up！”　said　she；　“don’t　annoy　me　with　holding　the　clothes　fast。　Are　you　Jane　Eyre？”

“I　am　Jane　Eyre。”

“I　have　had　more　trouble　with　that　child　than　any　one　would　believe。　Such　a　burden　to　be　left　on　my　hands—and　so　much　annoyance　as　she　caused　me；　daily　and　hourly；　with　her　inprehensible　disposition；　and　her　sudden　starts　of　temper；　and　her　continual；　unnatural　watchings　of　one’s　movements！　I　declare　she　talked　to　me　once　like　something　mad；　or　like　a　fiend—no　child　ever　spoke　or　looked　as　she　did；　I　was　glad　to　get　her　away　from　the　house。　What　did　they　do　with　her　at　Lowood？　The　fever　broke　out　there；　and　many　of　the　pupils　died。　She；　however；　did　not　die：　but　I　said　she　did—I　wish　she　had　died！”

“A　strange　wish；　Mrs。　Reed；　why　do　you　hate　her　so？”

“I　had　a　dislike　to　her　mother　always；　for　she　was　my　husband’s　only　sister；　and　a　great　favourite　with　him：　he　opposed　the　family’s　disowning　her　when　she　made　her　low　marriage；　and　when　news　came　of　her　death；　he　wept　like　a　simpleton。　He　would　send　for　the　baby；　though　I　entreated　him　rather　to　put　it　out　to　nurse　and　pay　for　its　maintenance。　I　hated　it　the　first　time　I　set　my　eyes　on　it—a　sickly；　whining；　pining　thing！　It　would　wail　in　its　cradle　all　night　long—not　screaming　heartily　like　any　other　child；　but　whimpering　and　moaning。　Reed　pitied　it；　and　he　used　to　nurse　it　and　notice　it　as　if　it　had　been　his　own：　more；　indeed；　than　he　ever　noticed　his　own　at　that　age。　He　would　try　to