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<- Previous | Table of Contents | Next -> Digital Library- Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

The apartment and furniture would have been nothing
extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a
stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in
knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his
armchair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is
to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if
you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a
singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-
skinned gypsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that
is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire; rather slovenly,
perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has
an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some
people might suspect him of a degree of underbred pride; I have a
sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I
know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy
displays of feeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll
love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of
impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too
fast: I bestow my own attributes over liberally on him. Mr.
Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his
hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to
those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost
peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a
comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly
unworthy of one.

While enjoying a month of fine weather at the seacoast, I was
thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real
goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I “never
told my love” vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot

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