Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream still? The old woman"s voice had changed: her accent，her gesture，and all were familiar to me as my own face in a glass- as the speech of my own tongue. I got up，but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire，and I looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her face，and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her hand stretched out: roused now，and on the alert for discoveries，I at once noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple member，with smooth fingers，symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger，and stooping forward，I looked at it，and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from me- on the contrary，the bonnet was doffed，the bandage displaced，the head advanced.

"Well，Jane，do you know me?" asked the familiar voice.

"Only take off the red cloak，sir，and then-"

"But the string is in a knot- help me."

"Break it，sir."

"There，then- "Off，ye lendings!"" And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his disguise.

"Now，sir，what a strange idea!"

"But well carried out，eh? Don"t you think so?"

"With the ladies you must have managed well."

"But not with you?"

"You did not act the character of a gipsy with me."

"What character did I act? My own?"

"No; some unaccountable one. In short，I believe you have been trying to draw me out- or in; you have been talking nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair，sir."

"Do you forgive me，Jane?"