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<- Previous | Table of Contents | Next -> Digital Library- Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

“Good evening, Joseph,” I said coldly. “What business brings
you here tonight?”

“It’s Maister Linton Aw mun spake tull,” he answered, waving
me disdainfully aside.

“Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something
particular to say, I’m sure he won’t hear it now,” I continued. “You
had better sit down in there, and entrust your message to me.”

“Which is his rahm?” pursued the fellow, surveying the range
of closed doors.

I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very
reluctantly I went up to the library, and announced the
unseasonable visitor, advising that he should be dismissed till next

Mr. Linton had no time to empower me to do so, for he
mounted close at my heels, and, pushing into the apartment,
planted himself at the far side of the table, with his two fists
clapped on the head of his stick, and began in an elevated tone, as
if anticipating opposition:

“Hathecliff has send me for his lad, un Aw munn’t goa back
’baht him.”

Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding
sorrow overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his
own account; but, recalling Isabella’s hopes and fears, and anxious
wishes for her son, and her commendations of him to his care, he
grieved bitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and searched in
his heart how it might be avoided. No plan offered itself: the very
exhibition of any desire to keep him would have rendered the
claimant more peremptory: there was nothing left but to resign
him. However, he was not going to rouse him from his sleep.

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