A real goddes in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I "never told my love" vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return -the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame -shrank icely into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mama to decamp. By this curious turn of disposion I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlesness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
EMILY BRÖNTE: Wuthering heigths
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