And her clothes, they will wear out: how can she get new ones?"
Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. "Hem!" said he. "What would you do, Adèle? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out of a rainbow."
"She is far better as she is," concluded Adèle, after musing some time: "besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you."
"She has consented: she has pledged her word."
"But you can't get her there: there is no road to the moon: it is all air; and neither you nor she can fly."
"Adèle, look at that field." We were now outside Thornfield gates, and bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was well laid by the thunder-storm, and where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each side glistened green, and rain-refreshed.
"In that field, Adèle, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight since—the evening of the day you helped me to make hay
