"You don't know him -- don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I
said, with warmth.
"Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise
occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won't
ask the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay!
I have it here -- it is always more satisfactory to see important
points written down, fairly committed to black and white."
And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought
through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip
of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its
stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin
of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and
I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words
"JANE EYRE" -- the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.
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