It Is Strange People Should Be So

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.

You Have Been Compelled To Cultivate Your Reflective Faculties, For Want Of Occasions For Frittering Your Life Away In Silly Trifles.

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of, His And Mine Are The Same; And Linton's Is As Different As A Moonbeam From Lightning, Or Frost From Fire

The Old Church Tower And Garden Wall Are Black With Autumn Rain And Dreary Winds Foreboding Call The Darkness Down Again

A Person Who Has Not Done One Half His Day's Work By Ten O Clock, Runs A Chance Of Leaving The Other Half Undone.