"You'll have some meat?"
"Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all."
"And the sago?"
"Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime:
I'll make it myself."
The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting
for me: so I departed.
I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration
during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the
enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering
the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why
she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very
least, dismissed from her master's service. He had almost as much
as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what
mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he
enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold, vindictive,
and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the
meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when
she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge
her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.
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