Wuthering Heights

mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss
Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter’s distraction at his bereavement
is a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how
deep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left
without an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and
I mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the
securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son’s. An
unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life,
and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We
redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as
its end is likely to be.

Next morning—bright and cheerful out of doors—stole softened in through
the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant
with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the
pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as
deathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but
_his_ was the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace.
Her brow smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a