monet painting

speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain
against the panes.
Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked
different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern- much
less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled,
whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable.
He was, in short, in his after dinner mood; more expanded and
genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid
temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his
massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the
light of the fire on his granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark
eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too- not
without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was
not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling.
He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking
the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my