you gave of his appearance;—a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?”
“ St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile.”
( Aside. ) “Damn him!”—( To me. ) “Did you like him, Jane?”
“Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before.”
I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm the snake.
“Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?” was the next somewhat unexpected observation.