However her sister was a very different proposition….
This time I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow;  I heard also the fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed to it the right cause;  but it annoyed me so much that I resolved to silence it, if possible;  and I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered to the staple, a circumstance observed by me, when I wake, but forgotten.
“I must stop it, nevertheless!” I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching and arm out to seize the importunate 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 !”
    Wuthering Heights tells of free-spirited Cathy, the daughter of Wuthering Heights, and Heathcliffe, the waif her father brings home with whom she shares a deeply passionate love. But their different stations stand between them, and Cathy desires the wealth and status offered by their near neighbours, the Lintons. So, despite her desperate love for Heathcliffe, she marries Linton while Heathcliffe is reduced in the ranks to stable boy. Years later, Heathcliffe returns to claim his inheritance, ripped off him by his dissolute step-brother, Hindley. Now the master, Heathcliffe wreaks revenge on all around him, and Cathy resists him until she is on her deathbed.
    Years later, the ghost of Cathy still returns to Wuthering Heights until one night when Heathcliffe goes out into the storm looking for her, dies, and thus they are reunited. For mine, the greatest of all ghost stories.

Cousin Lennie was the Heathcliffe of Rosely’s existence—I knew that because his photograph and a lock of his hair was the bookmark that crept with me through those dark and stormy pages. He was the eldest of several sons of one of my mother’s brothers, and the blackest sheep in the family—handsome in a slicked-back, broken-nosed way, and the terror of Warrnambool—eternally in scrapes with authority figures there. Rosely adored him—tearful indeed were those occasions when our holidays in that languid sea-side town coincided with one of his internments in the Geelong reformatory.