How Cruel, Your Veins Are Full Of

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of, His And Mine Are The Same.

The Intense Horror Of Nightmare Came Over Me: I Tried To Draw Back My Arm, But The Hand Clung To It, And A Most Melancholy Voice Sobbed, 'let Me In - Let Me In!' 'who Are You?' I Asked, Struggling, Meanwhile, To Disengage Myself. 'catherine Linton,' It Replied, Shiveringly (why Did I Think Of Linton? I Had Read Earnshaw Twenty Times For Linton) - 'i'm Come Home: I'd Lost My Way On The Moor!' As It Spoke, I Discerned, Obscurely, A Child's Face Looking Through The Window.

Proud People Breed Sad Sorrows For Themselves.

You Have Left Me So Long To Struggle Against Death, Alone, That I Feel And See Only Death! I Feel Like Death!

How Strange! I Thought, Though Everybody Hated And Despised Each Other, They Could Not Avoid Loving Me.