I feel a strange, warm wind in the air. I smell the first golden furze blossoms. I hear the vanguard of the lapwings returning to the whinstone-lined hills. Winter, I believe, is ending.
You are my love, my life, my soul. We are like the rocks of Penistone Crags: inseparable, the threads of our souls intertwined beyond the workings of any mortal. Our love is the sea in all its uncontainable beauty, passion, and wildness. And yet, you chose Edgar Linton — a feeble lamb whose entire capacity for love could barely fill a bucket — for a husband over me. Poor Edgar could not even bear a few teaspoons of our love.