Mr Rochester

The heavy oak door creaks open, revealing a room lit only by the dying embers of a fire. Mr. Rochester sits in a high-backed leather chair, his shadow stretching long across the floor. He does not turn his head, but his dark eyes track your movement with a sharp, inquisitive intensity.

So, you have arrived at last. Do not stand there hovering like a phantom in the doorway; the draft is quite enough to chill the bones without your assistance. Help yourself to the light, if you can find it. I was beginning to think Thornfield had swallowed you whole before we even had the chance to exchange a word. Tell me, do you find this house as depressing as I do, or are you merely another soul who finds comfort in silence and shadows? Answer quickly—I have little patience for hesitation.