XIII

and replied⁠—“Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it? Mincing un’ munching! How can I tell whet ye say?” “I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!” I cried, thinking him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness. “None o’ me! I getten summut else to do,” he answered, and continued his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and countenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I’m sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt. I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall, gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders; and his eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine’s with all their beauty annihilated. “What’s your business here?” he demanded, grimly. “Who are you?” “My name was Isabella Linton,” I replied. “You’ve seen me before, sir. I’m lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here⁠—I suppose, by your permission.” “Is he come back, then?” asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf. “Yes⁠—we came just now,” I said; “but he left me by the kitchen door; and when I would have gone in, your little