Mr Heathcliff, in fact, is my only neighbour, and I think his character is similar to mine. He does not like people either.

      ‘My name is Lockwood,’ I said, when I met him at the gate to his house. ‘I’m renting Thrushcross Grange from you. I just wanted to come and introduce myself.’

      He said nothing, but frowned, and did not encourage me to enter. After a while, however, he decided to invite me in.

      ‘Joseph, take Mr Lockwood’s horse!’ he called. ‘And bring up some wine from the cellar!’ Joseph was a very old servant, with a sour expression on his face. He looked crossly up at me as he took my horse.

      ‘God help us! A visitor!’ he muttered to himself. Perhaps there were no other servants, I thought. And it seemed that Mr Heathcliff hardly ever received guests.

      His house is called Wuthering Heights. The name means ‘a windswept house on a hill’, and it is a very good description. The trees around the house do not grow straight, but are bent by the north wind, which blows over the moors every day of the year. Fortunately, the house is strongly built, and is not damaged even by the worst winter storms. The name ‘Earnshaw’ is cut into a stone over the front door.

      Mr Heathcliff and I entered the huge main room. It could have been any Yorkshire farmhouse kitchen, except that there was no sign of cooking, and no farmer sitting at the table. Mr Heathcliff certainly does not look like a farmer. His hair and skin are dark, like a gipsy’s, but he has the manners of a gentleman. He could perhaps take more care with his appearance, but he is handsome. I think he is proud, and also unhappy.

      We sat down by the fire, in silence.

      ‘Joseph!’ shouted Mr Heathcliff. No answer came from the cellar, so he dived down there, leaving me alone with several rather fierce-looking dogs. Suddenly one of them jumped angrily up at me, and in a moment all the others were attacking me. From every shadowy corner in the great room appeared a growling animal, ready to kill me, it seemed.

      ‘Help! Mr Heathcliff! Help!’ I shouted, trying to keep the dogs back. My landlord and his servant were in no hurry to help, and could not have climbed the cellar steps more slowly, but luckily a woman, who I supposed was the housekeeper, rushed into the room to calm the dogs.

      ‘What the devil is the matter?’ Mr Heathcliff asked me rudely, when he finally entered the room.

      ‘Your dogs, sir!’ I replied. ‘You shouldn’t leave a stranger with them. They’re dangerous.’

      ‘Come, come, Mr Lockwood. Have some wine. We don’t often have strangers here, and I’m afraid neither I nor my dogs are used to receiving them.’

      I could not feel offended after this, and accepted the wine. We sat drinking and talking together for a while. I suggested visiting him tomorrow. He did not seem eager to see me again, but I shall go anyway. I am interested in him, even if he isn’t interested in me.

      Two days later Yesterday afternoon was misty and bitterly cold, but I walked the four miles to Wuthering Heights and arrived just as it was beginning to snow. I banged on the front door for ten minutes, getting colder and colder. Finally Joseph’s head appeared at a window of one of the farm buildings.

      ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

      ‘Could you let me in?’ I asked desperately.

      He