Something of masquerade I suspected.

I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features.

But my mind had been running on Grace Poole--that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her.

I had never thought of Mr.Rochester.
"Well," said he, "what are you musing about?
What does that grave smile signify ?" "Wonder and self-congratulation, sir.

I have your permission to retire now, I suppose ?" "No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing." "Discussing the gipsy, I daresay." "Sit down!--Let me hear what they said about me." "I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock.