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22 “You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night,” I cried. “I want you to tell me my way, not to show it; or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.” “Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph, and I. Which would you have?” “Are there no boys at the farm?” “No; those are all.” “Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.” “That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.” “I hope it will be a lesson to you, to make no more rash journeys on these hills,” cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. “As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton, or Joseph, if you do.” “I can sleep on a chair in this room,” I replied. “No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!” said the unmannerly wretch. With this insult, my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first, the young man appeared about to befriend me. “I’ll go with him as far as the park,” he said. “You’ll go with him to hell!” exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. “And who is to look after the horses, eh?” “A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect |