Wuthering Heights

past happiness and the greater peril there was of conjuring up its
apparition, the quicker the thible ran round, and the faster the
handfuls of meal fell into the water. Joseph beheld my style of cookery
with growing indignation.

“Thear!” he ejaculated. “Hareton, thou willn’t sup thy porridge
to-neeght; they’ll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear,
agean! I’d fling in bowl un’ all, if I wer ye! There, pale t’ guilp
off, un’ then ye’ll hae done wi’t. Bang, bang. It’s a mercy t’ bothom
isn’t deaved out!”

It _was_ rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; four
had been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was brought from
the dairy, which Hareton seized and commenced drinking and spilling
from the expansive lip. I expostulated, and desired that he should have
his in a mug; affirming that I could not taste the liquid treated so
dirtily. The old cynic chose to be vastly offended at this nicety;
assuring me, repeatedly, that “the barn was every bit as good” as I,
“and every bit as wollsome,” and wondering how I could fashion to be so
conceited. Meanwhile, the infant ruffian continued sucking; and
glowered up at me defyingly, as he slavered into the jug.