monet painting

battlements?' pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a
hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods, that,
by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.
'Yes, sir.'
'Whose house is it?'
'Mr. Rochester's.'
'Do you know Mr. Rochester?'
'No, I have never seen him.'
'He is not resident, then?'
'No.'
'Can you tell me where he is?'
'I cannot.'
'You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are-' He
stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple:
a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine
enough for a lady's-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I
helped him.
'I am the governess.'
'Ah, the governess!' he repeated; 'deuce take me, if I had not
forgotten! The governess!' and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In
two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he
tried to move.
'I cannot commission you to fetch help,' he said; 'but you may help
me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.'