Wuthering Heights

found among my house keys one that would fit the lock. Having opened, I
emptied the whole contents into my apron, and took them with me to
examine at leisure in my own chamber. Though I could not but suspect, I
was still surprised to discover that they were a mass of
correspondence—daily almost, it must have been—from Linton Heathcliff:
answers to documents forwarded by her. The earlier dated were
embarrassed and short; gradually, however, they expanded into copious
love-letters, foolish, as the age of the writer rendered natural, yet
with touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more
experienced source. Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds
of ardour and flatness; commencing in strong feeling, and concluding in
the affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied,
incorporeal sweetheart. Whether they satisfied Cathy I don’t know; but
they appeared very worthless trash to me. After turning over as many as
I thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside,
relocking the vacant drawer.

Following her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited the
kitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain