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For a minute I thought you might be a dream too." "Where did you come from?" he asked. "From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn't go to sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to find out who it was. What were you crying for?" "Because I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. Tell me your name again." "Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come to live here?"
From time to time the wind wuthered in the chimney at his back; from time to time there swept over Bloomsbury a squall so dark that he must rise and light the gas; about him was the chill and the mean disorder of a house out of commission the floor bare, the sofa heaped with books and accounts enveloped in a dirty table-cloth, the pens rusted, the paper glazed with a thick film of dust; and yet these were but adminicles of misery, and the true root of his depression lay round him on the table in the shape of misbegotten forgeries.
If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane! "It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said.
If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured down and beat against the pane! "It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said.
The wind wuthered so I couldn't go to sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to find out who it was. What were you crying for?" "Because I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. Tell me your name again." "Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come to live here?" He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality.
From time to time the wind wuthered in the chimney at his back; from time to time there swept over Bloomsbury a squall so dark that he must rise and light the gas; about him was the chill and the mean disorder of a house out of commission the floor bare, the sofa heaped with books and accounts enveloped in a dirty table-cloth, the pens rusted, the paper glazed with a thick film of dust; and yet these were but adminicles of misery, and the true root of his depression lay round him on the table in the shape of misbegotten forgeries.
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