jane-eyre

gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with
him: it was Mr. Rochester.
‘How do you do?’ he asked.
‘I am very well, sir.’
‘Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?’
I thought I might have retorted the question on him who
put it: but I would not take that freedom. I answered—
‘I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged,
sir.’
‘What have you been doing during my absence?’
‘Nothing particular; teaching Adele as usual.’
‘And getting a good deal paler than you were—as I saw at
first sight. What is the matter?’
‘Nothing at all, sir.’
‘Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?’
‘Not she least.’
‘Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early.’
‘I am tired, sir.’
He looked at me for a minute.
‘And a little depressed,’ he said. ‘What about? Tell me.’
‘Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.’
‘But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few
more words would bring tears to your eyes—indeed, they
are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has
slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had
time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of
a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well,
to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my
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Jane Eyre