re； Mrs。 Poole’s square； flat figure； and unely； dry； even coarse face； recurred so distinctly to my mind’s eye； that I thought； “No； impossible！ my supposition cannot be correct。 Yet；” suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts； “you are not beautiful either； and perhaps Mr。 Rochester approves you： at any rate； you have often felt as if he did； and last night—remember his words； remember his look； remember his voice！”
I well remembered all； language； glance； and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed。 I was now in the schoolroom； Adèle was drawing； I bent over her and directed her pencil。 She looked up with a sort of start。
“Qu’ avez…vous； mademoiselle？” said she。 “Vos doigts tremblent me la feuille； et vos joues sont rouges： mais； rouges me des cerises！”
“I am hot； Adèle； with stooping！” She went on sketching； I went on thinking。
I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole； it disgusted me。 I pared myself with her； and found we were different。 Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady； and she spoke truth—I was a lady。 And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me； I had more colour and more flesh； more life； more vivacity； because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments。
“Evening approaches；” said I； as I looked towards the window。 “I have never heard Mr。 Rochester’s voice or step in the house to…day； but surely I shall see him before night： I feared the meeting in the morning； now I desire it； because expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impatient。”
When dusk actually closed； and when Adèle left me to go and play in the nursery with Sophie； I did most keenly desire it。 I listened for the bell to ring below； I listened