My eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under control: the irids would fix on him

And where is Mr. Rochester He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those nettingneedles, on the meshes of the purse I am formingI wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative positions Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me.