xxiv

I’m glad that chapter’s over. I know we’re supposed to suffer fools but Lord that chapter about makes me lose my religion.

xxv

Edgar senses he hasn’t long.

The correspondences, negotiating a meeting of Catherine and Linton.

Are you familiar with chess? Heathcliff is maneuvering people as pieces, hey? Gaining control of the board…

xxvi

Come just a little further…

…aaaaaand he’s a quarter mile from the Heights with no horse.

Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of; and he had evidently great difficulty sustaining any kind of conversation. His lack of interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity to contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not conceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his whole person and manner. The pettiness that might be caressed into fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the peevish temper of a child which frets and tease on purpose to be soothed, and more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling consolation, ready to regard the good-humored mirth of others as an insult. (208)

[Andersen takes the quill from Brontë and takes over the narrative:

Cathy looks down in resigned disgust as realizes that Linton is indeed a “whey-faced wretch.” She scans the heathered hills, hoping to see no witnesses, and with a wrinkled nose whispers to Ellen, “Can’t we just put him out of his misery or something?”

“Girl! I have waited so long for you to say that!” hissed an electrified Nell, suppressing a jig and producing a shockingly large, long-barreled pistol, Clint Eastwood-like, from under serapé…

ROLL CREDITS

Sigh…]

You see, however, Linton’s terror at his father’s being disappointed with the outcome of the meeting. Heathcliff is apparently quite rough with one of the pieces he’s moving around the board.

Do you have any sympathy for Linton?