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Chapter 18

The twelve years, continued Mrs. Dean, following that
dismal period, were the happiest of my life: my greatest
troubles in their passage rose from our little lady’s trifling
illnesses, which she had to experience in common with all
children, rich and poor.

For the rest, after the first six months, she grew like a larch,
and could walk and talk too, in her own way, before the heath
blossomed a second time over Mrs. Linton’s dust.

She was the most winning thing that ever brought sunshine
into a desolate house: a real beauty in face, with the Earnshaws’
handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons’ fair skin, and small features,
and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not rough,
and qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its
affections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of
her mother; still she did not resemble her; for she could be soft
and mild as a dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive
expression: her anger was never furious; her love never fierce; it
was deep and tender.

However, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her
gifts. A propensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that
indulged children invariably acquire, whether they be good
tempered or cross. If a servant chanced to vex her, it was always:
“I shall tell Papa!” And if he reproved her, even by a look, you
would have thought it a heart-breaking business: I don’t believe he
ever did speak a harsh word to her.

He took her education entirely on himself, and made it an
amusement. Fortunately, curiosity and a quick intellect urged her

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