oil painting artist

privilege of again looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on me
or not; and they added- 'Hasten! hasten! be with him while you may:
but a few more days or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for
ever!' And then I strangled a new-born agony- a deformed thing which I
could not persuade myself to own and rear- and ran on.
They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the
labourers are just quitting their work, and returning home with
their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour I arrive. I have
but a field or two to traverse, and then I shall cross the road and
reach the gates. How full the hedges are of roses! But I have no
time to gather any; I want to be at the house. I passed a tall
briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; I see
the narrow stile with stone steps; and I see- Mr. Rochester sitting
there, a book and a pencil in his hand; he is writing.
Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for
a moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not