Any Relic Of The Dead Is Precious,

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.

Love Is Like The Wild Rose-briar; Friendship Like The Holly-tree. The Holly Is Dark When The Rose-briar Blooms, But Which Will Bloom Most Constantly?

A Sensible Man Ought To Find Sufficient Company In Himself.

What Kind Of Living Will It Be When You - Oh, God! Would You Like To Live With Your Soul In The Grave?

I Cannot Express It: But Surely You And Everybody Have A Notion That There Is, Or Should Be, An Existence Of Yours Beyond You.