Wuthering Heights

Heathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she never
moved.

Ere long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road
towards the kitchen wing. Mr. Linton was not far behind; he opened the
gate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoying the lovely
afternoon that breathed as soft as summer.

“Now he is here,” I exclaimed. “For heaven’s sake, hurry down! You’ll
not meet any one on the front stairs. Do be quick; and stay among the
trees till he is fairly in.”

“I must go, Cathy,” said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself from
his companion’s arms. “But if I live, I’ll see you again before you are
asleep. I won’t stray five yards from your window.”

“You must not go!” she answered, holding him as firmly as her strength
allowed. “You _shall_ not, I tell you.”

“For one hour,” he pleaded earnestly.

“Not for one minute,” she replied.

“I _must_—Linton will be up immediately,” persisted the alarmed
intruder.

He would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act—she clung fast,
gasping: there was mad resolution in her face.

“No!” she shrieked. “Oh, don’t, don’t go. It is the last time! Edgar
will not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die! I shall die!”