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WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
CHAPTER V.
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return. Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew.
Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back: and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of her "real" cousin.
The evening of their expected arrival came. Since early morning, she had been busy, or-
