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While Miss Linton moped about the park and garden,
always silent, and almost always in tears; and her
brother shut himself up among books that he never
opened--wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague expectation
that Catherine, repenting her conduct, would come of her own
accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation--and she fasted
pertinaciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar
was ready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from
running to cast himself at her feet; I went about my household
duties, convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its
walls, and that lodged in my body.
I wasted no condolences on Miss, nor any expostulations on my
mistress; nor did I pay attention to the sighs of my master, who
yearned to hear his lady’s name, since he might not hear her voice.
I determined they should come about as they pleased for me;
and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice at
length in a faint dawn of its progress--as I thought at first.
Mrs. Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having
finished the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed
supply, and a basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I
set down as a speech meant for Edgar’s ears; I believed no such
thing, so I kept it to myself, and brought her some tea and dry
She ate and drank eagerly; and sank back on her pillow again,
clenching her hands and groaning.
“Oh, I will die,” she exclaimed, “since no one cares anything
about me. I wish I had not taken that.” Then a good while after I