"But why, Jane--why?" cried Mr. Rochester incredulously. "Violent
fancies, child!"

"Why, sir, it was, I say, not the sea I heard, but a trickling tide
one icy tap might stay, if it found but entry there."

"You talk wildly, Jane--wildly, wildly; the air's afloat with
listeners; so it seems, so it seems. Had I but one clear lamp in this
dark face!"

We sat down in the candle-lit twilight to supper. It was to me like
the supper of a child, taken at peace in the clear beams, ere he
descend into the shadow of sleep.

They sat, try as I would not to observe them, hand touching hand
throughout the meal. But to me it was as if one might sit to eat
before a great mountain ruffled with pines, and perpetually clamorous
with torrents. All that Mr. Rochester said, every gesture, these were
but the ghosts of words and movements. Behind them, gloomy,
imperturbable, withdrawn, slumbered a strange, smouldering power. I
began to see how very hotly Jane must love him, she who loved above
all things storm, the winds of the equinox, the illimitable night-sky.

She begged him to take a little wine with me, and filled his glass
till it burned like a ruby between their hands.

"It paints both our hands!" she cried glancing up at him.

"Ay, Janet," he answered; "but where is yours?"