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In her hand, an old, worn out copy of Wuthering Heights that was crumbling at the edges. In the other, a cup of tea to warm her from the morning rain and stormy weather. To her, this was perfect; sitting by the window with the soft platter of rain, changing rhythm, and hollow wind howling as music. Sometimes she would sit there for hours on end, entranced by the poor fates of Catherine and Heathcliff.
'People feel with their hearts, Ellen: and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him: and I would not, though he groaned from this to his dying day, and wept tears of blood for Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, I wouldn't!'
By the time she was finished, so would be her day. And she would count the days away until Sunday came again.
