Earnshaw

I felt as if there were eyes somewhere in the dark corners of the chilly room, watching and waiting for some sign or hidden word unknown to me.

Then I saw those dusty volumes on the window ledge, and three names scratched in the wood: Catherine Earnshaw, Catherine Heathcliff, Catherine Linton.

One of the books was a musty testament, written in a small, feminine hand.

I sat down on the bed, turning the diary to the candlelight, and began to read.

It was Catherine Earnshaw's book.

"Today's my birthday," she had written, "the saddest day of all.

17,"

Think how many we could bring home if you'd only let Heathcliff have a gun.

I'm forgetting names of things.

Kathy's left, married the neighbor next door, comes back, and Mr., Mr. Earnshaw is now really reveling in his alcoholism and is seated in between these mounds of empty wine bottles, whatever they might be.

It's not practical and it doesn't even make a cartoonish sense.

Right.