Hello there, and welcome to tonight's episode of Down to Sleep as we continue with Wuthering Heights.

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Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

What vain weathercocks we are.

I, who had determined to hold myself independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my

stars that, at length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable.

I, weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk, a struggle with low spirits and solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours.

And under pretense of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment,

I desired Mrs. Dean when she brought in supper to sit down while I ate it, hoping sincerely she would

prove a regular gossip, and either rouse me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.

You've lived here a considerable time, I commenced. Did you not say 16 years?

Eighteen, sir. I came when the mistress was married to wait on her. After she died,

...