Wuthering Heights

“I sud more likker look for th’ horse,” he replied. “It ’ud be to more
sense. Bud I can look for norther horse nur man of a neeght loike
this—as black as t’ chimbley! und Heathcliff’s noan t’ chap to coom at
_my_ whistle—happen he’ll be less hard o’ hearing wi’ _ye_!”

It _was_ a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared inclined
to thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the approaching rain
would be certain to bring him home without further trouble. However,
Catherine would not be persuaded into tranquillity. She kept wandering
to and fro, from the gate to the door, in a state of agitation which
permitted no repose; and at length took up a permanent situation on one
side of the wall, near the road: where, heedless of my expostulations
and the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash
around her, she remained, calling at intervals, and then listening, and
then crying outright. She beat Hareton, or any child, at a good
passionate fit of crying.

About midnight, while we still sat up, the storm came rattling over the
Heights in full fury. There was a violent wind, as well as thunder, and
either one or the other split a tree off at the corner of the building: