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

heard her murmur, “No, I’ll not die--he’d be glad--he does not
love me at all--he would never miss me!”

“Did you want anything, ma’am?” I inquired, still preserving
my external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and
strange exaggerated manner.

“What is that apathetic being doing?” she demanded, pushing
the thick entangled locks from her wasted face. “Has he fallen into
a lethargy, or is he dead?”

“Neither,” replied I; “if you mean Mr. Linton. He’s tolerably
well, I think; though his studies occupy him rather more than they
ought: he is continually among his books, since he has no other

I should not have spoken so, if I had known her true condition,
but I could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her

“Among his books!” she cried, confounded. “And I dying! I on
the brink of the grave! My God! does he know how I’m altered?”
continued she, staring at her reflection in a mirror hanging against
the opposite wall. “Is that Catherine Linton? He imagines me in a
pet--in play, perhaps. Cannot you inform him that it is frightful
earnest? Nelly, if it be not too late, as soon as I learn how he feels,
I’ll choose between these two: either to starve at once--that would
be no punishment unless he had a heart--or to recover, and leave
the country. Are you speaking the truth about him now? Take
care. Is he actually so utterly indifferent for my life?”

“Why, ma’am,” I answered, “the master has no idea of your
being deranged; and of course he does not fear that you will let
yourself die of hunger.”

“You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?” she returned.

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