countenance of a woman who had attempted murder; and whose intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and (as I believed) charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I was amazed—confounded. She looked up while I still gazed at her: no start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fear of detection. She said, "Good morning, Miss," in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.
"I will put her to some test," thought I: "such absolute impenetrability is past comprehension."
"Good morning, Grace," I said. "Has anything happened here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago."
"Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire: but, fortunately, he awoke before the bed-clothes or the woodwork caught, and contrived to quench the flame with the water in the ewer."
"A strange affair!" I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her fixedly,—"Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?"
