The phone went for the fourth time that morning, and I had a pretty good idea who was calling. ‘It’s me,’ said my sister Deb. ‘Look here, do you think I have to finish all these books?’
‘Up to you. Why do you ask?’
The phone went silent for a moment, as if she was considering a proposition by one of those German philosophers who wrote long books that only three people have been able to understand.
‘Do you know a book called Wuthering Heights?’
