you could not be farther from a Mr. Bingley if you tried.” He had no idea how to reply to such a thing, so he took a long draft of his ale. “You are beyond even a Mr. Rochester,” Harriet said, and he didn’t know that fellow, either, but he deduced he was odious so he pinned her with a look over the rim of his glass. “In fact,” she said, her eyes widening with shocked realization, “in fact, you—you are a Heathcliff.”
