Hmm, seems that I am the one who had completely forgotten Adele after Jane and Rochester were reunited. I didn't recognise any of the quotes from the Conclusion.
I must admit to paying little attention beyond "Reader I married him". as it all seemed a rather dull tying-up up of loose ends. Clearly Adele had done the task for which Charlotte had created her, and so she wrote her out of Jane's life in short order.
I think I must forgive Jane, having paid so little attention to Adele's future life myself.
You guys certainly get into the characters' worlds. It reminds me of my old prof, who wrote an essay, "how many children had Lady Macbeth?' In other words, characters are not the most important thing, debatable of course.
On @Lamb Chopped 's suggestion I've just started reading Jenna Starborn, and I'm really enjoying it so far. I like the way it is like and yet so unlike Jane Eyre
It seems (records are a bit dicey) the historic Lady Macbeth had at least 1 son by her first husband; the son followed Macbeth on the throne (though only for a few months).
But she seems to have forgotten Adele completely when she is reunited with Rochester.
I may be wrong, as it is a good few years since I last read the book, but that has bothered me for a long time.
You're not wrong and I found the dismissal of Adele at the end very unsatisfying and even cruel.
You have not quite forgotten little Adèle, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me.
So Jane with memories of Lowood, rescues this underfed pale child (another Helen Burns?). But rather like someone who adopts a stray pet and then finds it inconvenient, the new family togetherness and homeschooling doesn't work. Perhaps Rochester is jealous?
I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another—my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes.
That 'sometimes' is chilling because I couldn't help feeling it might depend on Rochester's mood and how complaint Adele might be. Not the lively chatty nuisance we met earlier in the novel. And Jane and Rochester have a baby son, Adele is superfluous.
I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her.
This then is the transformation of the French child with those foreign defects into the meek equivalent of a subservient paid companion and possibly housekeeper, grateful and no trouble to Jane or Rochester. What chance has Adele of finding a husband or even her own Rochester?
Of course it can be read that way; but IMHO the girl who was herself a helpless dependent is unlikely to force that sort of thing on another, even if French!--if you see what I mean. I take these passages rather to mean that she has left school already (probably in midteens) and has not yet married, so is spending her time at home--and while she is there, behaves as an agreeable person. "Grateful attention to me and mine" need not be paid or even enforced by emotional means; it could simply mean that a child with fond memories of a governess might now be a late teen who continues to feel warmly toward that person, and in addition shows an *unsurprising interest in the baby--and a willingness to help out with the remaining disabilities of Mr Rochester. (*Unsurprising, because unless they do indeed mean to keep her unmarried, which seems surprisingly harsh in someone of Jane's background, Adele must soon expect to be a wife and mother herself.)
I don't see how you get "housekeeper" from this at all.
It seems (records are a bit dicey) the historic Lady Macbeth had at least 1 son by her first husband; the son followed Macbeth on the throne (though only for a few months).
@LambChopped the English understanding of the word 'companion' often implies a household dependent who makes herself obliging and useful (often as Woolf noted taking on the role of a housekeeper) in return for board and lodging. Defined in a few places this way: 'A lady's companion was a woman of genteel birth who lived with a woman of rank or wealth as retainer.'
I've just finished Jenna Starborn on @Lamb Chopped 's recommendation. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I found the similarities and differences helped inform my view of the original book. one of the more successful reimaginings I've come across.
A little long, but this may be a fun coda: Back in 2004, there was a Heaven Thread featuring modern retellings/parodies of various novels (unfortunately no longer existing, but I made a download)--below are the posts for Jane Eyre.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 11 March, 2004 19:18 :
OK, as suggested before, how about Jane Eyre?...
My cousins had accompanied Aunt Reed to her regular Sunday trip to the mall without me. This suited me quite well, as I was content in my solitude, my only companion the tiny glass of gin Bessie allowed me. I was still stung, however, by Aunt Reed's words--"I only want pleasant, happy, children near me, Jane, not those who whine that we should be attending Evensong at a not-too-low cathedral."
Solace came to me in a happy thought. As Christmas was next week, I could coordinate the house for Advent! I ran to the room I shared with Bessie and eagerly grabbed any cloth or sheet of acceptable color. Becoming quite gay, I cheerfully draped and festooned the hallway.
How brief our joys! So preoccupied was I, I did not even hear my relations return. Approaching from behind without warning, John Reed knocked me down--"Ooh, you nasty Tat Queen! I'm telling Mamma--she'll put you in the Earth Tones Room!..."
Posted by Ariel (# 58) on 11 March, 2004 19:42 :
"So what," I snarled back. "Maybe I like it in there. Maybe I feel some sense of solidarity with the earth and a kinship with nature. Go on. Shut me in, see if I care. I'll be quite happy meditating and playing with my crystals."
He went pale, and the next thing I knew he'd run screaming from the room. "Mamma, Mamma, Jane's become a pagan!"
They locked me in the Earth Tones Room that night and I was as happy as could be. I played with the crystals, flicked through a few back numbers of Prediction Magazine, cast a couple of horoscopes and noted with satisfaction that John was going to die young of gout, apoplexy and venereal disease. In the morning they had to prise me out, and to my surprise I found myself shown into the parlour where a strange man was waiting and my suitcases were packed and ready.
"What's going on?" I said.
"They're taking you away," said John with malicious glee.
"Oh, is that all," I said. "I thought you were going to tell me I was being sent away as governess to some lunatic in a Gothic stately home with a mad wife in the attic or something."
My aunt looked at the strange man and said, "You see, this is the kind of melodramatic nonsense we have to put up with. Anyway, she's all yours now," and passed him a plain brown envelope that rustled. I looked him up and down, summing him up. He had a tight, repressed look about him that suggested he'd probably expect me to act out some fantasy about schoolgirls with black stockings, while he sat in a chair and watched, cane in hand.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 11 March, 2004 20:07 :
My fears as I entered Mr. Brocklehurst's School for Recalcitrant Girls were largely confirmed. I saw girls of various ages, under the watchful eyes of menacing Monitors, stiffly sitting on couches, forced to watch the Fox News Channel and eat McDonald's lunches.
"We have a new pupil!" Mr. Brocklehurst announced. As everyone turned around, he intoned, "I warn you, this girl is wild and uncontrollable--she went from High Anglican to Pagan in the space of a day! She must be made normal and inoffensive..."
Posted by irreverentmakrina (# 4271) on 11 March, 2004 20:07 :
Later, I was sent to Mr. Brocklehurst for a brief orientation.
"Look," he sighed. "We used to have standards here, all right? There used to be shabby uniforms and ice water to wash in and tubercular students hacking up giant loogies in the washroom. There used to be beatings, regular beatings. The kind a school staff would be proud to give.
"Unfortunately, political correctness has caught up with us. I expect you'll find your stay with us rather uneventful as long as you refrain from commenting on people's gender, ethnicity, age, disabilities, sexual preference, blemishes or other unsightliness, or intelligence lacking or otherwise.
"If, however, I hear one racist, sexist, elitist, ageist comment out of you, young lady, you'll wish we were back in the good old days when you could be punished with just a simple caning. Do you know what the court system can do to a young life like yours if you get caught in a lawsuit? You'll never survive."
I sighed and headed for the dormitory, pledging to keep a vow of silence continually at this new school, rather than make a mis-step by telling someone she looked cute in the clothes she had chosen for the day.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 11 March, 2004 23:34 :
Until the next morning, my stay was as uneventful as Mr. Brocklehurst had promised. This changed during my MOTR Politics Class.
"Burns, what did you just put on that desk?" demanded Miss Scatcherd.
"Nothing," mumbled a girl somewhat older than I.
Miss Scatcherd immediately went to the desk. "Chick Tracts?? Have you learned nothing here??"
"No one has to read them," the girl said sullenly.
"Bigoted Girl! While your classmates have Recess, you shall serve Detention by reading out loud from Readers Digest and Free to be You and Me" As Miss Scatcherd turned to resume her lecture, I saw the girl tremble slightly and let one tear escape her eye, but otherwise display no emotion. I was intrigued...
Posted by irreverentkit (# 4271) on 12 March, 2004 00:40 :
Especially as she was really cute. But was political correctness just a front here? If I came on to her, would I be fried on the altar of homophobia?
I decided to watch, and wait and hope. Anyway, she was lots cuter than any tormented father of a young French girl with a wife locked up in the attic that I had ever met. And she could see. With both eyes.
Posted by Ariel (# 58) on 12 March, 2004 04:39 :
To cut a long story short, Helen and I soon became close friends. It was a happy relationship that lasted until Mr Brocklehurst caught her selling cannabis to the younger girls, after which she suddenly vanished. When I went to look for her I found all her things had disappeared, some other girl had been moved into her room, and Mr Brocklehurst denied that there had ever been anyone called Helen Burns at the school and I had imagined the whole thing. Well, perhaps I had. I shrugged and got on with life. I had my own plans, and she'd been a bit clingy anyway.
I was getting bored with this place: it was time to think about getting out and getting a job. I looked at the ads in newsagents' windows, the classified sections of the free papers, and googled on the internet for "job", found some I liked the look of and sent off my CV, but surprisingly nobody seemed that interested in employing a busty brunette, 36-26-36, willing and happy to try anything. It looked like I was going to be stuck here for a bit. But then one day I had an email.
Posted by Firenze (# 619) on 12 March, 2004 12:24 :
It was from a close relative of a recently-assassinated African leader, and offered me a share of some unclaimed millions. I briskly sent off the Rev Brocklehurst's bank details (which I had found useful in other online transactions).
The next one looked a bit more interesting. 'Explore your own unique, changeable perceptions, goals, motives, priorities, capabilities, limits, tolerances, rhythms, developmental cycles, moods and ranges of emotional sensitivity and expression. In a safe, holistic environment set among stunning natural scenery'. I sensed an opportunity.
Packing a small suitcase with the limited best of my own - and my schoolfriends' - possessions, I slipped quietly away that evening.
A few days later, I was standing...
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 14 March, 2004 18:52 :
...at Thornfield Hall, an unusual, Lloyd-Wrightish affair which, as I was soon to find out, was designed by its owner, the eccentric inventor Edward Rochester. I was buzzed into a reception area, at which an elderly woman sat at a desk.
"How do you do? I'm Mrs. Fairfax, Mr. Rochester's administrative assistant; unfortunately, he's a little behind in his appointments, so if you'll kindly take a seat...would you like some coffee?"
Mrs. Fairfax had a kindly but worn and harried air; I became uneasy about what sort of employer Mr. Rochester would be.
After about 15 minutes, a woman about my age stormed in. "How dare that crazy, stupid..." she muttered to herself as she quickly exited where I had entered.
"Uh...yes...Mr. Rochester will see you now," Mrs. Fairfax sheephishly announced.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 14 March, 2004 19:06 :
I nervously entered Mr. Rochester's studio. He was a large, gloomy, strong-featured man, with dishevelled clothes and the bare minimum of Society's standards of hygiene.
"So you're Miss Eyre...Hmm, you seem ignorant, unaccomplished, and emotionally insecure enough--not much chance of you taking undue advantage of my brilliance. As long as you're not a complete moron or psychopath, you'll do."
I rejoiced in my good fortune and wondered why the previous applicant had made such a row.
"What will be my duties, sir?" I inquired.
Mr. Rochester sighed. "I suppose your undeveloped mind hungers for all the gory details--very well. My former lover started designing, on these premises, an AI translator tool she dubbed the Accelerated Data-Enhancing Linguistic Entity or ADELE for short. I made her leave after--" Mr. Rochester briefly grimaced with disgust, "--she accepted a position at Microsoft but, hating unfinished work, reluctantly completed the monstrosity. To my chagrin, a casual mention of ADELE sparked interest in market potential. Your job," he said gesturing to some English-to-Other-Language dictionaries, "will be to test ADELE..."
Posted by Ariel (# 58) on 14 March, 2004 19:40 :
"Stuff that", I said and got up to leave. "I don't do computers. I understood you had a small daughter and wanted an au pair."
"I do have a daughter and I do want an au pair but the two things aren't necessarily connected," said Mr Rochester. "You like children?"
"I adore them. Teletubbies is my favourite TV programme, I have a huge poster of Bob the Builder on my bedroom wall, and I do finger painting every chance I get."
"Well, my daughter's into Playstation and being pretentious," said Mr Rochester. "She's going through a phase of only speaking French and leaving a trail of French magazines and letters everywhere. She's all yours, and now that you're here I'm going to South America to see a man about a llama, and I won't be back for a long time. Mrs Fairfax will give you a room. If you hear anything weird in the night, just assume it's our resident alcoholic arsonist. We keep one just in case. Goodbye."
And that, gentle reader, was how I came to Thornfield Hall.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 14 March, 2004 20:01 :
I searched for Mr. Rochester's daughter and eventually found her, as predicted, absorbed with a Playstation game. After a few minutes, she noticed me and made an affected curtsey.
"Mon chien est jaun," she greeted me.
"Your dog is yellow?" queried a mechanical voice.
ADELE had somehow gotten mixed in with the Playstation equipment and was angrily kicked away...
Posted by Firenze (# 619) on 15 March, 2004 07:48 :
'Turkish or Virginian?' I murmured, proffering a silver cigarette case (which had found its way into my possession during a Parents' Evening).
'Cool - uh, frais' she responded, lighting up with a practised flick that boded well.
'So, honey, you can drop the French schtick. Tell me what goes on around here'.
'Oh, the usual crowd of flaky crystal-gropers straightening out their chakras. Grace Poole deals with them. She has this Special Treatment.'
'Would that be the tall blonde? Pushing 45? Jodphurs and scarlet silk shirt? And how does that fit with your father's software consultancy and ADELE - '
She snorted 'My father! yeah, right! Let me tell you what's really going on - ' Suddenly her face assumed a look of terror 'Je dois aller rapidement' she shrieked, and with that she fled the room.
I looked around for what could have caused her terror, but could only see...
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 16 March, 2004 13:58 :
...a biking-shorts-clad courier.
"What a strange child," I thought as she ran away.
"Uh, where's Mrs. Fairfax?" the courier asked.
In less than two minutes, Mrs. Fairfax was opening various letters and packages.
"If you'll bear with me Jane, I'm arranging a party for when Mr. Rochester returns from South America."
"With all due respect, Mrs. Fairfax, he does not seem to be the sociable type."
"Oh, no--it's to promote his Self-Cleaning-Fork--the backers insist. We get Melissa Rivers to show up and everything. Ah--this is from the agent of Blanche Ingram."
"The supermodel?" I asked, trying to sound blasé.
"Oh, yes--good, she's been confirmed as available. What an impression she made last time..."
Posted by Ariel (# 58) on 16 March, 2004 18:12 :
"I bet she did," I said, my mind suddenly working overtime. Like everyone else, I read the tabloids to keep up with the really important news, and knew that Blanche Ingram, wafer-thin supermodel, was prone to appalling fits of temper. Last heard of throwing potted plants out of the window at La Caprice restaurant, punching paparazzi, and trashing a hotel room while on a shoot in New York, she was also rumoured to have an expensive habit, and perhaps Mr Rochester's sudden trip to South America might just have something to do with it. Then again, it was always possible that he actually had a genuine interest in the llama trade.
Anyhow, she was coming here, which was bad news, but Mrs Fairfax seemed excited, and after listening to her plans I relaxed. One bite of Mrs Fairfax's best steak and gristle pie, followed by a night in the Haunted Guestroom, and Blanche Ingram and her 26 suitcases would be piling into the first taxi they could get the next morning.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 16 March, 2004 20:58 :
The weeks flew by. My responsibilities were minimal, and I took the locked rooms, hushed whispers, and weird nightly noises in stride. We then learned of Mr. Rochester's imminent return. For once, Mrs. Fairfax was less than kindly and barked housekeeping orders to the rest of us as a multitude of edible sculptures, organic appetizers, bottled beverages, dry ice machines, track lights, barely-legal stimulants, and other exotic items was delivered.
The following day was the great event. It appeared that Mr. Rochester's one fashionable trait was being late, as the first guests, with their entourages, had already arrived...
Posted by Firenze (# 619) on 17 March, 2004 07:45 :
...and by virtue of a few brief but active encounters in the garderobe, the butler's pantry, the simples press and the preserves closet, I had already garnered a tidy garterfull of currency. And the imprint of a jar of quince jelly in the small of my back.
It was as I emerged from the downstairs bathroom, fresh from a little repair work on the mascara, that I encountered the beauteous Blanche.
'Oh look, a governess' she giggled. 'We used to hunt them with packs of borzois when I was a girl'.
'But of course times have changed so much since then' I replied sweetly.
'I see Top Shop are doing some quite clever copies of designer clothes. You should try them'.
'Mmm, well if that dress is an example - let's just wait for the new season, shall we?'
This exchange of pleasantries was cut short by the entry of Grace Poole, in a tuxedo, accessorised with monocle and cigarette holder.
'Apparently we have a famous psychic - Madame Arcarti - offering private consultations in the orangery. Women only.
Blanche immediately flounced away to take up the offer, leaving Grace and I alone...
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 17 March, 2004 21:22 :
"So, how are your clientele?" I politely asked. "I assume those screams I hear at night are Primal."
"Oh, yes," Grace said a little too quickly. "I suggest we see the psychic now."
By the time we arrived at the room, Blanche had already encountered the mysterious oracle.
"I'm sure she's a fake," she deigned to tell us, "but she did say that I would find another Sugar Daddy soon--it looks like coming to this Rochester gig was worthwhile after all."
How unexpected our feelings can be! Blanche's vapid words suddenly made me realize that I loved this ugly, obnoxious, socially inept, but comfortably-well-off man...
I shook my head in disbelief. What was I on? Would I still fancy him if he lived in a council house with the remains of furniture in the front garden and a rusty Skoda parked on the pavement? Anyway, it was my turn to have my fortune told, so I went along and pushed open the door of the sitting room, to find an evil old woman smoking an evil old pipe and giving me an evil old look. She reminded me of my mother.
"How much does it cost?" I asked.
"How much does what cost? I do palmistry, tarot, dice, bones, balls, and the tango for a little extra. That'll be 50 quid to you."
We negotiated for having my palm read. I wasn't going to pay the full price of 50 quid, so I handed over a five pound note, and she read one of my fingers instead. "There's a tall dark stranger in your future. Beware of a small yellow dog, your lucky number is 4,826 and your lucky underwear comes from Tesco's Exciting Secrets range."
"Is that it?"
"For five pounds, that's all you get."
"Well, when is all this going to happen?"
"Some time in the future," said the old crone unhelpfully. "Next!"
"But what about my love life?"
"You haven't got one."
"I know, that's why I want to know about it."
We got into a philosophical argument at this point, but eventually the crone gave in and said, "All right, I'll tell you. It goes like this ..."
Posted by Firenze (# 619) on 18 March, 2004 10:46 :
But whatever she was going to say was drowned out by a loud brass band rendition of 'Will Your Anchor Hold in the Storms of Life' as the door burst open to admit a tall man in clerical black.
He thrust a booklet into my hand entitled 'Crystals: the Devil's Spangles', followed by another one - 'Weather Forecasters: Minions of Satan'. Soon I had an armful of tracts condemning divination, fortune telling, horoscopes, short skirts, long hair, modern music, dating, drinking, smoking, dancing, TV, cinema and riding a bicycle.
'Repent!' he cried. 'Leave these halls of sin, and come to India! Wear hot, unsuitable clothes! Die young of malaria!'
As you may imagine, my response to this offer was...
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 18 March, 2004 19:37 :
"Eh, why not? As long as I don't have to marry you."
"What?? Travel alone with a woman not my relation?? No, as I am Sinjin Rivers, you must be my wife!"
"NO!" The crone cast off her rags and turned out to be Mr. Rochester in disguise. "You must stay, my darling Jane, and be my wife!"
"Oh, great, you're into Dressing Up," I groaned.
"Mr. Rochester, Jane cannot be your wife," Grace exclaimed. "You are already married!"
"WHAT??" said I. "To whom??"
"To me!" piped a voice.
"BUT YOU'RE HIS DAUGHTER!"
"Actually, I'm a psychotic midget, and I'm sick of this charade. Time to burn some stuff..."
Posted by Ariel (# 58) on 21 March, 2004 05:56 :
At which point, she set the house on fire.
"Sinbad," I said, "is your offer still open? I'm fed up with living in this zoo. I think I'll come with you."
We escaped and caught the bus to where he lived with his two sisters. They made me welcome in their own way, and didn't charge me any more than the standard rate for bed and breakfast. We had the occasional squabble over me getting a job, which boiled over one morning at the breakfast table when I flatly refused his offer to work in a newly opened call centre in India handling telephone enquiries for hours on end.
"I may be blonde but I'm not stupid, I'm not desperate, and I'm not going", I told him. "So put that in your pipe and smoke it."
The word "pipe" reminded me of Mr Rochester. But then so too did the words "dishevelled" and "weirdo". None the less I was curious. There'd been a small headline in the local free paper, "Thornfield Hall Burns Down", but no article to go with it, so I wondered what had happened. Maybe it might be worth taking a bus out to see. I might be able to get some good photos of picturesque ruins and who knows, make a bit of money out of this. Postcards, T-shirts, memorabilia ... if I started my own business, it would get Sinbad, or whatever his name was, and his sisters off my back for a bit. I found my camera and went off to catch a bus.
Posted by Belisarius (# 32) on 22 March, 2004 02:17 :
When I reached what remained of Thornfield Hall, I found that Mrs. Fairfax and Grace Poole had struck first. I felt a twinge of resentment as the two of them, in admittedly stylish uniforms, shepherded my tour group through the ruins.
"And here," Grace announced, "is where Mr. Rochester's secret wife started the fateful fire. No lives were lost, but all the guests sued, of course, costing Mr. Rochester all of his insurance money."
"Though the traumatic experience did bring us together." Mrs. Fairfax demurely interjected.
"Shunned and depressed," Grace continued, "he thought Laser Eye Surgery would cheer him up. He is still recovering in a rented flat in Millcote."
If only out of morbid curiosity, I looked Mr. Rochester up.
"Oh, is that you, Jane?" a tinted-shaded Mr. Rochester asked uncertainly. "How nice of you to stop by!"
"Oh, yes, lovely to see you!" said the psychotic midget as she entered from the kitchen.
"YOU'RE still here??" I exclaimed.
"Well, we did get a divorce, what with the fire and all," admitted the midget as she affectionally pecked Mr. Rochester's cheek, "but we get along better than ever now. Funny, huh?"
"This leaves me free to marry you, dear Jane," proffered Mr. Rochester.
"Are you insane?? You expect me to live with the two of you--"
"Three of us," corrected the midget.
"Oui--et moi aussi!" mechanically chimed ADELE.
"I'll admit, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, "that it may be a little strange, but we've already been contacted about starring in a new reality show--they say we're perfect!--and I think you would be a great addition!"
You can imagine my response, dear reader; suffice to say, my appearance in I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! is imminent.
Comments
I must admit to paying little attention beyond "Reader I married him". as it all seemed a rather dull tying-up up of loose ends. Clearly Adele had done the task for which Charlotte had created her, and so she wrote her out of Jane's life in short order.
I think I must forgive Jane, having paid so little attention to Adele's future life myself.
Of course it can be read that way; but IMHO the girl who was herself a helpless dependent is unlikely to force that sort of thing on another, even if French!--if you see what I mean. I take these passages rather to mean that she has left school already (probably in midteens) and has not yet married, so is spending her time at home--and while she is there, behaves as an agreeable person. "Grateful attention to me and mine" need not be paid or even enforced by emotional means; it could simply mean that a child with fond memories of a governess might now be a late teen who continues to feel warmly toward that person, and in addition shows an *unsurprising interest in the baby--and a willingness to help out with the remaining disabilities of Mr Rochester. (*Unsurprising, because unless they do indeed mean to keep her unmarried, which seems surprisingly harsh in someone of Jane's background, Adele must soon expect to be a wife and mother herself.)
I don't see how you get "housekeeper" from this at all.
Well, the question is sarcastic.
Now do Emma!
made me literally LOL.
least of all the ones I contributed. From the date, they were undoubtedly composed during work hours.
There's already Clueless.
Actually, we did do Mansfield Park--I'll put that on the MP Thread!
Edit: Done.
Those were the days--even if I had the time to post during work hours, everything is monitored now.
It's in the book... (Makes you wonder what else he kept in the wardrobe besides the Old Gypsy Woman outfit).