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Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!' he said. 'It is in danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton, I'm mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!

Emily Bronte

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Emily Bronte
Age: 30 †
Born: 1818
Born: July 30
Died: 1848
Died: December 19
Novelist
Poet
Thornton
West Yorkshire
Ellis Bell
Emily Jane Brontë
Aimili Bolangte
Emili Bronte
Emily Jane Bronte
Ai-mi-li Po-lang-tʻe
Ėmilii︠a︡ Bronte
エ ミ リ ー ブ ロ ン テ
Bulls
Knuckles
Knocking
Splitting
Sorry
Skull
Danger
Lamb
Worth
Threatens
Like
Bull
Mortally
Skulls
Linton
Lambs
Cathy

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He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction, a look of hatred unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.
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Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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I'll be as dirty as I please, and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty!
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By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
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I see heaven's glories shine and faith shines equal.
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He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments, 'till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her approval, were his first prompts to higher pursuits and, instead of guarding him from one and winning him to the other, his endeavors to raise himself had produced just the contrary result.
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Hereafter she is only my sister in name not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me.
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Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy.
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It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.
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It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,' he answered. 'Kiss me again and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?
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What kind of living will it be when you - Oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?
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My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.
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The old church tower and garden wall Are black with autumn rain And dreary winds foreboding call The darkness down again
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The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don't turn against him, they crush those beneath them.
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And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.
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I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen, and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him.
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I have to remind myself to breathe -- almost to remind my heart to beat!
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You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you.
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