the last supper painting

the last supper painting
The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued,
uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly-
'It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr.
Rochester has a wife now living.'
My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never
vibrated to thunder- my blood felt their subtle violence as it had
never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of
swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His
whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He
disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without
the last supper painting
speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a
human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to
his side.
'Who are you?' he asked of the intruder.
'And you would thrust on me a wife?'
'I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law
recognises, if you do not.'
'Favour me with an account of her- with her name, her parentage,
her place of abode.'
'Certainly.' Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and
read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-
the last supper painting