The Voice of Terror

I had read Earnshaw 20 times for Linton. And come home, where you're my way home. As it spoke, I discerned obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel, and finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist onto the broken pane,. Still it wailed... Let me in! It maintained its tenacious grip, almost maddening me with fear. How can I? I said, length, let me go if you want me to let you in. The fingers relaxed. Morn'd the voice. 20 years. I've been away for 20 years. Why did I think of Linton