“‘You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?’ he said. ‘Oh, Nelly! you know she has not! You know as well as I do, that for every thought she spends on Linton, she spends a thousand on me! At a most miserable period of my life, I had a notion of the kind; it haunted me on my return to the neighbourhood last summer, but only her own assurance could make me admit the horrible idea again. And then, Linton would be nothing, nor Hindley, nor all the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words would comprehend my future—death and hell; existence, after losing her, would be hell.
Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton’s attachment more than mine. If he love with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.'”
—from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
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