"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 vermilion, 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.
"Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre;" he said, "the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliot.—I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the alias?"
"Yes—yes—but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do."
