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“Oh, dear! I thought I was at home,” she sighed. “I thought I was lying in my chamber at Wuthering Heights.
“Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house!” she went on bitterly, wringing her hands. “And that wind sounding in the firs by the lattice. Do let me feel it—it comes straight down the moor—do let me have one breath!” To pacify her I held the casement ajar a few seconds. A cold blast rushed through; I closed it, and returned to my post.
I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?
he was invisible to her abstracted gaze.
the passion was wholly on one side:
He might as well plant an oak in a flower-pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares?
I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.
But he was too good to be thoroughly unhappy long. He didn’t pray for Catherine’s soul to haunt him.
her light, shining ringlets blending, at intervals, with his brown looks,
“why have I made him angry, by taking your part, then, a hundred times?
He trembled, and his face glowed: all his rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him: he could not summon courage, at first,

