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myself. “A good subject to start--and that pretty girl-widow, I
should like to know her history: whether she be a native of the
country, or, as is more probable, an exotic that the surly indigenae
will not recognise for kin.”

With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let
Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and
residence so much inferior. “Is he not rich enough to keep the
estate in good order?” I inquired.

“Rich, sir!” she returned. “He has, nobody knows what money,
and every year it increases. Yes, yes, he’s rich enough to live in a
finer house than this; but he’s very near--close-handed; and, if he
had meant to flit to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a
good tenant he could not have borne to miss the chance of getting
a few hundreds more. It is strange people should be so greedy,
when they are alone in the world!”

“He had a son, it seems?”
“Yes, he had one--he is dead.”
“And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?”

“Where did she come from originally?”
“Why, sir, she is my late master’s daughter: Catherine Linton
was her maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr.
Heathcliff would remove here, and then we might have been
together again.”

“What! Catherine Linton?” I exclaimed, astonished. But a
minute’s reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine.
“Then,” I continued, “my predecessor’s name was Linton?”

“It was.”
“And who is that Earnshaw, Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with

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