Oh for heaven's sake Bronte, give over.
This has been my hardest battle to finish yet. Jeez Louise, is there anything remotely likeable or identifiable in the gruelling, wind swept, dark brooding heavy-browed, heavy booted stomping, yelling, bickering, cursing, beatings and rain-lashed untimely sickly deaths of this 356 page "gothic" drear-fest.
"My, the yeomandry yonder fairly lash the whetstone nary minding the trivet or tyranny of dour Heathcliffe! I shall never go to The Grange! I shall stamp my foot until the vapours consume me and I upset the tureen of victuals! Nary will I allow my cousin access to The Heights for the turnpike is sultry and verily his surtout and briches are not fit for the tannery!" (repeat to fade)
Nope. Didn't care, wasn't remotely interested. Bugger off out of my window-oh-woah-woah Cathy, you're letting the draft in.