Mr. Rochester is married. He’s been married for years. Her name is Bertha Mason, and she lives in the attic, attended by Grace Poole, because she is completely mad. She was the one who set his bed on fire, almost killed Mr Mason (who is actually her brother, and the one who burst into our ceremony and announced all this), and tore up my wedding veil.

I’m leaving. Can’t say where. But I’m leaving. I can’t and won’t live like this. This is most likely the end of this blog. Thank you all for reading. My apologies for its unsatisfactory ending.