could almost visualize the next sentence before I reached it.
It was an old Penguin Classic, Ms. Brontë’s portrait gracing the cover.
The bookplate inside read: Saint Eustace Parish Church Sunday School, Presented to Eleanor Oliphant for Perfect Attendance, 1998.
I had a very ecumenical upbringing, all told, having been fostered by Presbyterians, Anglicans,
Catholics, Methodists and Quakers, plus a few individuals who wouldn’t recognize God if he pointed his electric Michelangelo finger at them.
I submitted to all attempts at spiritual education with equally bad grace.
Sunday school, or its equivalent, did at least get me out of whatever house I was living in,
and sometimes there were sandwiches, or, more rarely, tolerable companions.
I opened the book at random, in the manner of a lucky dip.
It fell open at a pivotal scene, the one where Jane meets Mr. Rochester for the first time,
startling his horse in the woods and causing him to fall.
Pilot is there too, the handsome, soulful-eyed hound. If the book has one failing,
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