I used to rush into strange dreams at night dreams many-coloured agitated full of the ideal the stirring the stormy--dreams where amidst unusual scenes charged with adventure with agitating risk and romantic chance I still again and again met Mr. Rochester always at some exciting crisis and then the sense of being in his arms hearing his voice meeting his eye touching his hand and cheek loving him being loved by him--the hope of passing a lifetime at his side would be renewed with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainless bed trembling and quivering and then the still dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair and heard the burst of passion.