“You’d rather be damned!” he said; “and so you shall. No law in England can hinder a man from keeping his house decent, and mine’s abominable! Open your mouth.” He held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point between my teeth: but, for my part, I was never much afraid of his vagaries. I spat out, and affirmed it tasted detestably⁠—I would not take it on any account.

“Oh!” said he, releasing me, “I see that hideous little villain is not Hareton: I beg your pardon, Nell. If it be, he deserves flaying alive for not running to welcome me, and for screaming as if I were a goblin. Unnatural cub, come hither! I’ll teach thee to impose on a good-hearted, deluded father. Now, don’t you think the lad would be handsomer cropped? It makes a dog fiercer, and I love something fierce⁠—get me a scissors⁠—something fierce and trim! Besides, it’s infernal affectation⁠—devilish conceit it is, to cherish our ears⁠—we’re asses enough without them. Hush, child, hush! Well then, it is my darling! wisht, dry thy eyes⁠—there’s a joy; kiss me. What! it won’t? Kiss me, Hareton! Damn thee, kiss me! By God, as if I would rear such a monster! As sure as I’m living, I’ll break the brat’s neck.”