Wuthering Heights

dislike him ever longer and worse, though he took some trouble to
conceal it: he had an antipathy to the sound of his voice, and could
not do at all with his sitting in the same room with him many minutes
together. There seldom passed much talk between them: Linton learnt his
lessons and spent his evenings in a small apartment they called the
parlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly getting
coughs, and colds, and aches, and pains of some sort.

“And I never knew such a faint-hearted creature,” added the woman; “nor
one so careful of hisseln. He _will_ go on, if I leave the window open
a bit late in the evening. Oh! it’s killing, a breath of night air! And
he must have a fire in the middle of summer; and Joseph’s bacca-pipe is
poison; and he must always have sweets and dainties, and always milk,
milk for ever—heeding naught how the rest of us are pinched in winter;
and there he’ll sit, wrapped in his furred cloak in his chair by the
fire, with some toast and water or other slop on the hob to sip at; and
if Hareton, for pity, comes to amuse him—Hareton is not bad-natured,
though he’s rough—they’re sure to part, one swearing and the other
crying. I believe the master would relish Earnshaw’s thrashing him to a