Meantime, let me ask myself one question⁠—Which is better?⁠—To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort⁠—no struggle;⁠—but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France, Mr. Rochester’s mistress; delirious with his love half my time⁠—for he would⁠—oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He did love me⁠—no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace⁠—for never to anyone else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me⁠—it is what no man besides will ever be.⁠—But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool’s paradise at Marseilles⁠—fevered with delusive bliss one hour⁠—suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next⁠—or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of England?