y　in　the　world　except　John　Reed；　and　this　book　about　the　liar；　you　may　give　to　your　girl；　Georgiana；　for　it　is　she　who　tells　lies；　and　not　I。”

Mrs。　Reed’s　hands　still　lay　on　her　work　inactive：　her　eye　of　ice　continued　to　dwell　freezingly　on　mine。

“What　more　have　you　to　say？”　she　asked；　rather　in　the　tone　in　which　a　person　might　address　an　opponent　of　adult　age　than　such　as　is　ordinarily　used　to　a　child。

That　eye　of　hers；　that　voice　stirred　every　antipathy　I　had。　Shaking　from　head　to　foot；　thrilled　with　ungovernable　excitement；　I　continued—

“I　am　glad　you　are　no　relation　of　mine：　I　will　never　call　you　aunt　again　as　long　as　I　live。　I　will　never　e　to　see　you　when　I　am　grown　up；　and　if　any　one　asks　me　how　I　liked　you；　and　how　you　treated　me；　I　will　say　the　very　thought　of　you　makes　me　sick；　and　that　you　treated　me　with　miserable　cruelty。”

“How　dare　you　affirm　that；　Jane　Eyre？”

“How　dare　I；　Mrs。　Reed？　How　dare　I？　Because　it　is　the　truth。　You　think　I　have　no　feelings；　and　that　I　can　do　without　one　bit　of　love　or　kindness；　but　I　cannot　live　so：　and　you　have　no　pity。　I　shall　remember　how　you　thrust　me　back—roughly　and　violently　thrust　me　back—into　the　red…room；　and　locked　me　up　there；　to　my　dying　day；　though　I　was　in　agony；　though　I　cried　out；　while　suffocating　with　distress；　‘Have　mercy！　Have　mercy；　Aunt　Reed！’　And　that　punishment　you　made　me　suffer　because　your　wicked　boy　struck　me—knocked　me　down　for　nothing。　I　will　tell　anybody　who　asks　me　questions；　this　exact　tale。　People　think　you　a　good　woman；　but　you　are　bad；　hard…　hearted。　You　are　deceitful！”

Ere　I　had　finished　this　reply；　my　soul　began　to　expand；　to　exult；　with　the　strangest　sense　of　freedom；　of　triumph；　I　ever　felt。　It　seemed　as　if　an　invisible　bond　had　burst；　and　tha