Epigraph: 'You won't give me a chance at life, you mean,' she said sullenly. 'However, I'm not helpless, yet: I'll open it myself.'
And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. - Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
