About four months ago I taught the first three chapters of Shirley, for a class on Condition of England novels, and was startled by how much I both remembered and had forgotten, just from that tiny section. When I first read Shirley, in my teens, I was looking for more Jane Eyre, and didn’t find it. Jane Eyre and Villette jostle for the position of my favourite Bronte book, but I even knew The Professor better than Shirley. For years, I’ve vaguely been aware that Charlotte Bronte’s Shirley (1849) is the one novel of hers that I never read properly.
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