Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same - Emily Brontë

In secret pleasure — secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away

He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, 'Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.
My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes trees.
My love for Heatcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.