Emily’s book was called Wuthering Heihts. It was a terrible, frightening, wonderful story. There is love in it, and hate, and fear, and a man called Heathciff, who is strong and cruel like the devil himself. I read it late one night when the wind was screaming round the house, blowing snow against all the windows, and sometimes I was afraid. When I got up to go to bed, I saw Emily sitting quietly by the fire. She was stroking her big gog, Keeper, with one hand, and drawing a picture with the other.