Wuthering Heights

door—he’s in there.”

I was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the
strangest tone—“Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your
bolt—don’t omit it!”

“Well!” I said. “But why, Mr. Earnshaw?” I did not relish the notion of
deliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff.

“Look here!” he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a
curiously-constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife
attached to the barrel. “That’s a great tempter to a desperate man, is
it not? I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his
door. If once I find it open he’s done for; I do it invariably, even
though the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that
should make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own
schemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for love as long
as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall
save him!”

I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how
powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his
hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my
face assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was