In January I walked to Hay to post a letter, and I sat on a stile in the frost. A horse came down the causeway with a great dog running before it, and the ice threw both horse and rider to the ground. The rider was a man of middle height with a dark face and heavy brows, and he was angry at his own helplessness. He leaned on my shoulder to reach the saddle, and he asked me questions all the while without giving his name. At the house I learned that he was Mr Rochester, the master of Thornfield. He sent for me that evening, looked at me for a long minute, and told me to sit down. You examine me, Miss Eyre, he said. Do you think me handsome? I answered no before I could stop myself.