"Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments."
"Take care then, sir! -- for God's sake, take care!"
The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors.
I recognised well that purple face, those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.
"Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: "she has no knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard."
"One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft."
"We had better leave her," whispered Mason.
"Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation.
"'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously.
Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously,
and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled.
She was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides:
she showed virile force in the contest -- more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was.
He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestle.
At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her:
with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair.
The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges.
Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.