Mr.
Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses.

I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no--it should be gone through with now.

By dint of entreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to two: these however, he vowed he would select himself.

With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin.

I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his choice.