“Because I won’t give you your death of cold,” I answered.
“You won’t give me a chance of life, you mean,” she said sullenly. “However, I’m not helpless, yet: I’ll open it myself.”
And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she was delirious, I became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no moon, and everything beneath lay in misty darkness: not a light gleamed from any house, far or near — all had been extinguished long ago; and those at Wuthering Heights were never visible — still she a
