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Chapter 2

Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind
to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through
heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from
dinner, however (N.B.--I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the
housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the
house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I
might be served at five), on mounting the stairs with this lazy
intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her
knees, surrounded by brushes and coal scuttles, and raising an
infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders.
This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and,
after a four miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden gate just in
time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.

On that bleak hilltop the earth was hard with a black frost, and
the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to
remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged
causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry bushes, knocked
vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs

“Wretched inmates!” I ejaculated mentally, “you deserve
perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish
inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the
daytime. I don’t care--I will get in!” So resolved, I grasped the
latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his
head from a round window of the barn.

“Whet are ye for?” he shouted. “T’ maister’s dahn i’ t’ fowld.
Goa rahned by th’ end ut’ laith, if yah went tuh spake tull him.”

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