Honest People Don't Hide Their Deeds.

You Know, I've Had A Bitter, Hard Life Since I Last Heard Your Voice And If I've Survived It's All Because Of You.

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.

I Love The Ground Under His Feet, And The Air Over His Head, And Everything He Touches And Every Word He Says. I Love All His Looks, And All His Actions And Him Entirely And All Together.

And, Even Yet, I Dare Not Let It Languish, Dare Not Indulge In Memory's Rapturous Pain; Once Drinking Deep Of That Divinest Anguish, How Could I Seek The Empty World Again?

You Loved Me-then What Right Had You To Leave Me? What Right-answer Me-for The Poor Fancy You Felt For Linton? Because Misery And Degradation, And Death, And Nothing That God Or Satan Could Inflict Would Have Parted Us, You, Of Your Own Will, Did It. I Have Not Broken Your Heart- You Have Broken It; And In Breaking It, You Have Broken Mine." ~heathcliff