Wuthering Heights

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 commenced.

“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 continue the history of Mr.