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- Джэйн Эйр
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- Стр. 367/445
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And
the
pocket-book
was
again
deliberately
produced
,
opened
,
sought
through
;
from
one
of
its
compartments
was
extracted
a
shabby
slip
of
paper
,
hastily
torn
off
:
I
recognised
in
its
texture
and
its
stains
of
ultra-marine
,
and
lake
,
and
vermillion
,
the
ravished
margin
of
the
portrait-cover
.
He
got
up
,
held
it
close
to
my
eyes
:
and
I
read
,
traced
in
Indian
ink
,
in
my
own
handwriting
,
the
words
"
Jane
Eyre
"
--
the
work
doubtless
of
some
moment
of
abstraction
.
"
Briggs
wrote
to
me
of
a
Jane
Eyre
:
"
he
said
,
"
the
advertisements
demanded
a
Jane
Eyre
:
I
knew
a
Jane
Elliott
.
--
I
confess
I
had
my
suspicions
,
but
it
was
only
yesterday
afternoon
they
were
at
once
resolved
into
certainty
.
You
own
the
name
and
renounce
the
alias
?
"
"
Yes
--
yes
;
but
where
is
Mr.
Briggs
?
He
perhaps
knows
more
of
Mr.
Rochester
than
you
do
.
"
"
Briggs
is
in
London
.
I
should
doubt
his
knowing
anything
at
all
about
Mr.
Rochester
;
it
is
not
in
Mr.
Rochester
he
is
interested
.
Meantime
,
you
forget
essential
points
in
pursuing
trifles
:
you
do
not
inquire
why
Mr.
Briggs
sought
after
you
--
what
he
wanted
with
you
.
"
"
Well
,
what
did
he
want
?
"
"
Merely
to
tell
you
that
your
uncle
,
Mr.
Eyre
of
Madeira
,
is
dead
;
that
he
has
left
you
all
his
property
,
and
that
you
are
now
rich
--
merely
that
--
nothing
more
.
"
"
I
!
--
rich
?
"
"
Yes
,
you
,
rich
--
quite
an
heiress
.
"
Silence
succeeded
.
