There was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling there.

I asked, 'Sophie, what are you doing ?' No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau.

'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried: and still it was silent.

I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins.

Mr.Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs.Fairfax: it was not--no, I was sure of it, and am still--it was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole." "It must have been one of them," interrupted my master.
"No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary.