My name is Lockwood, and in 1801 I took a house called Thrushcross Grange in the bleakest country in England. I called on my landlord at Wuthering Heights, a farmhouse built to stand against the wind, and I was received with a coldness I have never met elsewhere. Mr Heathcliff is a dark man, a gentleman in dress and a savage in manner. Snow kept me there for the night. I was put in an old oak bed, and I read the name Catherine Earnshaw scratched over and over into the paint. In my sleep a hand of ice took hold of mine at the window, and a child's voice begged to be let in. When I cried out, Heathcliff came, and he wept at the open casement and called into the storm for her to come back.