No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere.

Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in - let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of LINTON? I had read EARNSHAW twenty times for Linton) - 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window.

Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.

Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous

He... was attached by ties stronger than reason could break -- chains, forged by habit, which it would be cruel to attempt to loosen.