Proud People Breed Sad Sorrows For Themselves.

Worthless As Wither'd Weeds.

He Had The Hypocrisy To Represent A Mourner: And Previous To Following With Hareton, He Lifted The Unfortunate Child On To The Table And Muttered, With Peculiar Gusto, 'now, My Bonny Lad, You Are Mine! And We'll See If One Tree Won't Grow As Crooked As Another, With The Same Wind To Twist It!

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.

He Wanted All To Lie In An Ecstasy Of Peace; I Wanted All To Sparkle And Dance In A Glorious Jubilee. I Said His Heaven Would Be Only Half Alive; And He Said Mine Would Be Drunk: I Said I Should Fall Asleep In His; And He Said He Could Not Breathe In Mine.

A Good Heart Will Help You To A Bonny Face, My Lad And A Bad One Will Turn The Bonniest Into Something Worse Than Ugly.