The centre of the world is no longer where she is but where her beloved is; all roads leave from and lead to his house. She uses his words and repeats his gestures, adopts his manias and tics. ‘I am Heathcliff,’ says Catherine in Wuthering Heights; this is the cry of all women in love; she is another incarnation of the beloved, his reflection, his double: she is he. She lets her own world flounder in contingence. She lives in his universe.
