Wuthering Heights

by Emily Brontë

to ramble where I pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff!” “And that’s your notion of harshness?” said Catherine, laughing. “It was no hint that your company was superfluous: we didn’t care whether you kept with us or not; I merely thought Heathcliff’s talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears.” “Oh, no,” wept the young lady; “you wished me away, because you knew I liked to be there!” “Is she sane?” asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. “I’ll repeat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it could have had for you.” “I don’t mind the conversation,” she answered: “I wanted to be with—” “Well!” said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the sentence. “With him: and I won’t be always sent off!” she continued, kindling up. “You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!”