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About twelve o’clock, that night, was born the Catherine
you saw at Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven months’
child; and two hours after the mother died, having never
recovered sufficient consciousness to miss Heathcliff, or know
The latter’s distraction at his bereavement is a subject too
painful to be dwelt on; its after effects showed how deep the
A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left without an heir.
I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I mentally
abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the
securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son’s.
An unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed
out of life, and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of
existence. We redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning
was as friendless as its end is likely to be.
Next morning--bright and cheerful out of doors--stole softened
in through the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch
and its occupant with a mellow, tender glow.
Edgar Linton had his head laid on the pillow, and his eyes shut.
His young and fair features were almost as deathlike as those of
the form beside him, and almost as fixed; but his was the hush of
exhausted anguish, and hers of perfect peace. Her brow smooth,
her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no angel
in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared. And I
partook of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never
in a holier frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of