I had read of such hideous incarnate demons.

And then I set myself to reflect how I had tended him in infancy, and watched him grow to youth, and followed him almost through his whole course; and what absurd nonsense it was to yield to that sense of horror.

'But where did he come from, the little dark thing, harboured by a good man to his bane ?' muttered Superstition, as I dozed into unconsciousness.

And I began, half dreaming, to weary myself with imagining some fit parentage for him; and, repeating my waking meditations, I tracked his existence over again, with grim variations; at last, picturing his death and funeral: of which, all I can remember is, being exceedingly vexed at having the task of dictating an inscription for his monument, and consulting the sexton about it; and, as he had no surname, and we could not tell his age, we were obliged to content ourselves with the single word, 'Heathcliff.' That came true: we were.
If you enter the kirkyard, you'll read, on his headstone, only that, and the date of his death.
Dawn restored me to common sense.

I rose, and went into the garden, as soon as I could see, to ascertain if there were any footmarks under his window.