branch: instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!
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—Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bed-clothes: still it wailed, "Let me in!" and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear.
