My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder--my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.

     "Who are you?" he asked of the intruder.

     "My name is Briggs, a solicitor of --- Street, London."

     "And you would thrust on me a wife?"

     "I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not."

     "Favour me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her place of abode."

     "Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:--