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Chapter 22

Summer drew to an end, and early autumn--it was past
Michaelmas, but the harvest was late that year, and a few
of our fields were still uncleared.

Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among
the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves, they stayed till
dusk, and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master
caught a bad cold that, settling obstinately on his lungs, confined
him indoors throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without

Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been
considerably sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her
father insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. She
had his companionship no longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply
its lack, as much as possible, with mine; an inefficient substitute,
for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous
diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, and then my society
was obviously less desirable than his.

On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November--a
fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with
moist, withered leaves, and the cold, blue sky was half hidden by
clouds--dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and
boding abundant rain--I requested my young lady to forego her
ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I
unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany
her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she
generally affected if low-spirited--and that she invariably was
when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never

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