Wuthering Heights

“Hey, Throttler, lad!” whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred
bull-dog from its lair in a corner. “Now, wilt thou be ganging?” he
asked authoritatively.

Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to
wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible;
and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany
me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and
replied—“Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it?
Mincing un’ munching! How can I tell whet ye say?”

“I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!” I cried, thinking
him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness.

“None o’ me! I getten summut else to do,” he answered, and continued
his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and
countenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I’m
sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt.

I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at
which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant
might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall,
gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his