“It is a line by Jane Austen.” “Ah.” He’d heard of Jane Austen but knew nothing of her work. “Of course,” she said. “You wouldn’t know—you don’t read novels. In any case, 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.”
