Wuthering Heights

to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it
was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal
scowl they wore was their every-day countenance.

“It is strange,” I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea
and receiving another—“it is strange how custom can mould our tastes
and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life
of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff;
yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with
your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—”

“My amiable lady!” he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on
his face. “Where is she—my amiable lady?”

“Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.”

“Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of
ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even
when her body is gone. Is that it?”

Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have
seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to
make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a
period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of