The spectre showed a spectre’s ordinary caprice.
– Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights, first published 1847, a year before the death of its author, aged 30, although it appeared under the pseudonym of Ellis Bell, Penguin Books, Australia, 2009, p. 33
A nothing vexed him, and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits.
– Ibid., p. 47
‘Is Heathcliff not here?’ she demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully whitened with doing nothing, and staying in doors.
– Ibid., p. 62
I cannot express it; but surely you and every body have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation if I were entirely contained here?
– Ibid., p. 96
they were really in possession of deep and growing happiness.
It ended. Well, we must be for ourselves in the long run
– Ibid., p. 108
‘I have such faith in Linton’s love that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn’t wish to retaliate.’
I advised her to value him the more for his affection.
– Ibid., p. 115
I believed a person who could plan the turning of her fits of passion to account, beforehand, might, by exerting her will, manage to control herself tolerably even while under their influence
– Ibid., p. 138
he was too good to be thoroughly unhappy for long. He didn’t pray for Catherine’s soul to haunt him
– Ibid., p. 217
He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow; if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult work, successfully executed.
– Ibid., p. 221
‘Her affection for him was still the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger; he spoke in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils and foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he could bequeath to guide her.’
– Ibid., p. 300
‘he’s such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him’
– Ibid., p. 336
Living among clowns and misanthropists, she probably cannot appreciate a better class of people, when she meets them.
– Ibid., p. 356
‘my mind is so eternally secluded in itself, it is tempting, at last, to turn it out to another.’
– Ibid., p. 378
