your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—"
"My amiable lady!" he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. "Where is she—my amiable lady?"
"Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean."
"Well, yes—Oh! you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?"
Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty; a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love, by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.
Then it flashed upon me; "the clown at
