Catherine dies from acute stubbornness, complicated by postpartum exhaustion and a fever that would make a hypochondriac proud. It is messy, loud, and leaves a ghostly impression on the windowsill of literature forever. The moral of the story? If you’re going to die, at least have a better reason than a man with a bad haircut.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to eat a cheese plate in her honor. Rest in peace, you chaotic queen—you truly made dying look like an art form.
