floral oil painting

'Now, Jane, why don't you say "Well, sir?" I have not done. You are
looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to
the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses- in a harsh, bitter
frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life-
corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and
especially against all womankind (for I began to regard the notion
of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream),
recalled by business, I came back to England.
'On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield
Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace- no pleasure there. On a
stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I
passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I
had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning
that the arbitress of my life- my genius for good or evil- waited
there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion
of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered me help.
Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped