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Acharming introduction to a hermit’s life! Four weeks’
torture, tossing, and sickness! Oh, these bleak winds and
bitter northern skies, and impassable roads, and dilatory
country surgeons! And, oh, this dearth of the human
physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible intimation of
Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till spring!
Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven
days ago he sent me a brace of grouse--the last of the season.
Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine;
and that I had a great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I
offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a
good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts,
blisters and leeches?
This is quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as
if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean
to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she
had gone. Yes, I remember her hero had run off, and never been
heard of for three years; and the heroine was married. I’ll ring;
she’ll be delighted to find me capable of talking cheerfully.
Mrs. Dean came.
“It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine,” she
“Away, away with it!” I replied; “I desire to have--” “The
doctor says you must drop the powders.”
“With all my heart! Don’t interrupt me. Come and take your
seat here. Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials.
Draw your knitting out of your pocket--that will do--now