"...The old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will escape from a disorderly comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and easy; where is the obstacle?"
"Here! and here!" replied Catherine, striking one hand on her forehead, and the other on her breast, "in whichever place the soul lives. In my soul and in my heart, I'm convinced I'm wrong!"
"...I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
(Wuthering Heights, pp. 56-57)
What's going on? What's this feeling? Do I actually feel sorry for these silly fools? Do I actually like this book? I did not expect this to happen!