No Coward Soul Is Mine, No Trembler

I Have No Pity! I Have No Pity! The More Worms Writhe, The More I Yearn To Crush Out Their Entrails! It Is A Moral Teething, And I Grind With Greater Energy, In Proportion To The Increase Of Pain.

Alas, For The Effects Of Bad Tea And Bad Temper!

I'm Happiest When Most Away I Can Bear My Soul From Its Home Of Clay On A Windy Night When The Moon Is Bright And The Eye Can Wander Through Worlds Of Light— When I Am Not And None Beside— Nor Earth Nor Sea Nor Cloudless Sky— But Only Spirit Wandering Wide Through Infinite Immensity.

Yet I Was A Fool To Fancy For A Moment That She Valued Edgar Linton's Attachment More Than Mine -- If He Love With All The Powers Of His Puny Being, He Couldn't Love As Much In Eighty Years, As I Could In A Day. And Catherine Has A Heart As Deep As I Have; The Sea Could Be As Readily Contained In That Horse-trough, As Her Whole Affection Be Monopolized By Him -- Tush! He Is Scarcely A Degree Dearer To Her Than Her Dog, Or Her Horse -- It Is Not In Him To Be Loved Like Me, How Can She Love In Him What He Has Not?

The Lord Help Us!' He Soliloquised In An Undertone Of Peevish Displeasure, While Relieving Me Of My Horse: Looking, Meantime, In My Face So Sourly That I Charitably Conjectured He Must Have Need Of Divine Aid To Digest His Dinner, And His Pious Ejaculation Had No Reference To My Unexpected Advent.