“ ‘Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last agony, I’d go to hell with joy,’ groaned the impatient man, writhing to rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the struggle.

“ ‘Nay, it’s enough that he has murdered one of you,’ I observed aloud. ‘At the Grange, everyone knows your sister would have been living now had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be hated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were⁠—how happy Catherine was before he came⁠—I’m fit to curse the day.’

“Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw, for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath in suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed scornfully. The clouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which usually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned that I did not fear to hazard another sound of derision.