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somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of
giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.
We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which
had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of
light; the large fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains
hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch;
everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adele (she dared not
speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain
against the panes.
Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked
different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern- much
less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled,
whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable.
He was, in short, in his after dinner mood; more expanded and
genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid
temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his
massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the
light of the fire on his granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark
eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too- not
without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was
not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling.
He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking
the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my
gaze fastened on his physiognomy.
'You examine me, Miss Eyre,' said he: 'do you think me handsome?'
I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by
something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow
slipped from my tongue before I was aware- 'No, sir.'
'Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you,' said he:
'you have the air of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave, and
simple, as you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally
bent on the carpet (except, by the bye, when they are directed
piercingly to my face; as just now, for instance); and when one asks
you a question, or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply,
you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least
brusque. What do you mean by it?'
'Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied
that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about
appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little
consequence, or something of that sort.'
'You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little
consequence, indeed! And so, under pretence of softening the
previous outrage, of stroking and soothing me into placidity, you
stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on: what fault do you find
with me, pray? I suppose I have all my limbs and all my features
like any other man?'
'Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no