Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
* * * * * DEAR ELLEN, it begins,--I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and heard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill.
I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or too distressed to answer what I sent him.

Still, I must write to somebody, and the only choice left me is you.
Inform Edgar that I'd give the world to see his face again--that my heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and Catherine! _I can't follow it though_--( these words are underlined)--they need not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please; taking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or deficient affection.
The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone.

I want to ask you two questions: the first is,--How did you contrive to preserve the common sympathies of human nature when you resided here?
I cannot recognise any sentiment which those around share with me.
The second question I have great interest in; it is this--Is Mr.
Heathcliff a man?
If so, is he mad?
And if not, is he a devil?
I sha'n't tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to explain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon.

Don't write, but come, and bring me something from Edgar.
Now, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led to imagine the Heights will be.

It is to amuse myself that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them.