Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen⁠—a dingy, untidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his mouth.

“This is Edgar’s legal nephew,” I reflected⁠—“mine in a manner; I must shake hands, and⁠—yes⁠—I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good understanding at the beginning.”

I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said⁠—“How do you do, my dear?”

He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend.