Wuthering Heights

“Tut, tut!” said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him
roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin.
“None of that nonsense! We’re not going to hurt thee, Linton—isn’t that
thy name? Thou art thy mother’s child, entirely! Where is _my_ share in
thee, puling chicken?”

He took off the boy’s cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt
his slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton
ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.

“Do you know me?” asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the
limbs were all equally frail and feeble.

“No,” said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.

“You’ve heard of me, I daresay?”

“No,” he replied again.

“No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for
me! You are my son, then, I’ll tell you; and your mother was a wicked
slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed.
Now, don’t wince, and colour up! Though it _is_ something to see you
have not white blood. Be a good lad; and I’ll do for you. Nelly, if you
be tired you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you’ll
report what you hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this