Грозовой перевал

In the year 1801 I rented a house in the north of England, as far from the noise of society as I could find. It was called Thrushcross Grange, and it stood in a valley among the Yorkshire moors. My landlord lived four miles away, higher up on the hills, in an old farmhouse called Wuthering Heights. He was my only neighbour. On my first day I rode up to call on him.

"Mr Heathcliff?" I asked the man who stood at the gate.

He nodded, and looked at me from under his black brows as if I had come to rob him.

"My name is Lockwood. I am your new tenant, sir. I thought I should call as soon as possible after my arrival."

"Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir," he said. "I would not let anyone trouble me there, if I could help it. Walk in!"

He said "walk in" through closed teeth, and the words really meant "go away." Yet I am a reserved man myself, and I felt drawn to someone who seemed even colder than I was. When my horse pushed against the gate, he unchained it at last and walked ahead of me up the stone path.