And where is Mr. Rochester?
He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him
enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles,
on the meshes of the purse I am forming -- I wish to think only
of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and
silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his
figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just
after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and
he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with
eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose
emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment!
What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative
positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So
far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me.
I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at
the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the
ladies.
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