Wuthering Heights

or thrice, Hindley’s manifestation of scorn, while his father was near,
roused the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and
shook with rage that he could not do it.

At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by
teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land
himself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr.
Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said—“Hindley was
nought, and would never thrive as where he wandered.”

I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the
master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the
discontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as
he would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his
sinking frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for
two people—Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay,
up yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest
self-righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the
promises to himself and fling the curses to his neighbours. By his
knack of sermonising and pious discoursing, he contrived to make a