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388 “Is the fool drunk?” asked Mr. Heathcliff. “Hareton, is it you he’s finding fault with?” “I’ve pulled up two or three bushes,” replied the young man; “but I’m going to set ’em again.” “And why have you pulled them up?” said the master. Catherine wisely put in her tongue. “We wanted to plant some flowers there,” she cried. “I’m the only person to blame, for I wished him to do it.” “And who the devil gave you leave to touch a stick about the place?” demanded her father-in-law, much surprised. “And who ordered you to obey her?” he added, turning to Hareton. The latter was speechless; his cousin replied-- “You shouldn’t grudge a few yards of earth for me to ornament, when you have taken all my land!” “Your land, insolent slut? you never had any!” said Heathcliff. “And my money,” she continued, returning his angry glare, and meantime biting a piece of crust, the remnant of her breakfast. “Silence!” he exclaimed. “Get done, and begone!” “And Hareton’s land, and his money,” pursued the reckless thing. “Hareton and I are friends now, and I shall tell him all about you!” The master seemed confounded a moment: he grew pale, and rose up, eyeing her all the while, with an expression of mortal hate. “If you strike me, Hareton will strike you!” she said; “so you may as well sit down.” “If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I’ll strike him to hell,” thundered Heathcliff. “Damnable witch! dare you pretend to rouse him against me? Off with her! Do you hear? Fling her into |