T' pig doesn't want it." The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured it ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more.
"My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy.

"I feel I cannot go much farther.

Shall I be an outcast again this night?
While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground?
I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me?
But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation--this total prostration of hope.

In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning.

And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death?
Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life?
Because I know, or believe, Mr.Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively.