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28 kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub! “‘Maister Hindley!’ shouted our chaplain. ‘Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy’s riven th’ back off “Th’ Helmet uh Salvation,” un Heathcliff’s pawsed his fit intuh t’ first part uh “T’ Brooad Way to Destruction!” It’s fair flaysome ut yah let’em goa on this gait. Ech! th’ owd man ud uh laced ’em properly--bud he’s goan!’ “Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us by the collar and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen, where, Joseph asseverated, ‘owd Nick’ would fetch us as sure as we were living; and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot of ink from the shelf, and pushed the house door ajar to give me light, and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman’s cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion-- and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified--we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.” * I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose. “How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!” she wrote. “My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow, and still I can’t give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been |