“Never mind⁠—wait a minute: Adèle is not ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room, favours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally watched Adèle (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious study⁠—reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day). She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. ‘ Il faut que je l’essaie! ’ cried she, ‘ et à l’instant même! ’ 17 and she rushed out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes she will reenter; and I know what I shall see⁠—a miniature of Céline Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the rising of ⸻; but never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it will be realised.”