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d with his white neckcloth; and stilted up on his thick…soled high…lows; eh?”
“St。 John dresses well。 He is a handsome man: tall; fair; with blue eyes; and a Grecian profile。”
(Aside。) “Damn him!”—(To me。) “Did you like him; Jane?”
“Yes; Mr。 Rochester; I liked him: but you asked me that before。”
I perceived; of course; the drift of my interlocutor。 Jealousy had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy。 I would not; therefore; immediately charm the snake。
“Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee; Miss Eyre?” was the next somewhat unexpected observation。
“Why not; Mr。 Rochester?”
“The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast。 Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination;—tall; fair; blue…eyed; and with a Grecian profile。 Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan;—a real blacksmith; brown; broad…shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain。”
“I never thought of it; before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan; sir。”
“Well; you can leave me; ma’am: but before you go” (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever); “you will be pleased just to answer me a question or two。” He paused。
“r。 Rochester?”
Then followed this cross…examination。
“St。 John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?”
“Yes。
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