Emily Jane Brontë

she said, with angry animation. ‘You are one of those things that are ever found when least wanted, and when you are wanted, never!

He is a dark—skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman:

He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again.

he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire

In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.

He is a dark—skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire

she understood me at last, and looked a return—the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame—shrunk icily into myself, like a snail

‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir?’

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. ‘Wuthering’ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.

Ah, your favourites are among these?’ I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.