think, without her knowledge, not even without her approval.

This, then, was the face that had returned wrath for wrath, remorse
for remorse, passion for passion to that dark egotist Jane in the
looking-glass. Yet who, thought I, could be else than beautiful with
eyes that seemed to hide in fleeting cloud a flame as pure as amber?
The arch simplicity of her gown, her small, narrow hands, the
exquisite cleverness of mouth and chin, the lovely courage and
sincerity of that yet-childish brow--it seemed even Mr. Rochester's
"Four Evangels" out of his urgent rhetoric was summoning with
reiterated persuasions, "Jane Eyre, Jane Eyre, Jane Eyre, Ja ... ne!"

Light faded from the woods; a faint wind blew cold upon our faces.
Jane took Mr. Rochester's hand and looked into his face.

She turned to me. "Will you come in, Mr. Brocken? I have seen that
your horse is made quite easy. He was fast asleep, poor fellow, as
you surmised; and, I think, dreaming; for when I proffered him a lump
of sugar, he thrust his nose into my face and breathed as if I were a
peck of corn. The candles are lit, sir; supper is ready."

We went in slowly, and Jane bolted the door. "But who it is that can
be bolted out," she said, "I know not; though there's much to bolt in.
I have stood here, Mr. Brocken, on darker nights as still as this, and
have heard what seemed to be the sea breaking, far away, leagues upon
leagues beyond the forests--the gush forward, the protracted, heavy
retreat,--listened till I could have wept to think that it was only my
own poor furious heart beating. You may imagine, then, I push the
bolts home."