Living Inside A Novel: Whutering Heights
I would have never imagined that crocheting would be so exhausting; my fingers got tangled just like my muscles. At a certain point I froze—or rather, Nelly and I froze, given that I was a silent, sentient spirit inside her body. I heard her mumbling, blaming her rheumatism. We were petting Cathy's cat when we heard a sound similar to a knock on the door. We thought it was yet another trick of the wind. After the second and third knock, we understood that there was someone behind the door. The oak door was decorated with smiling cherubs, and above it hung a bell with a cord but no knocker. In the midst of a thick fog, we saw the form of a powerful man who had to bend down to enter the house. His large face was red, as were his hands, and his shoes were soaked with iced water. For a moment, we didn't say a word; then we invited him in. The cat ran away from his favorite armchair, while the man shook like a bush in a violent wind. Mr. Lockwood drank a cup of hot coffee, took of...
