“If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I’ll strike him to hell,” thundered Heathcliff.
“Damnable witch! dare you pretend to rouse him against me? Off with her! Do you hear? Fling her into the kitchen! I’ll kill her, Ellen Dean, if you let her come into my sight again!”
Hareton tried, under his breath, to persuade her to go.
“Drag her away!” he cried, savagely. “Are you staying to talk?” And he approached to execute his own command.
“He’ll not obey you, wicked man, any more,” said Catherine; “and he’ll soon detest you as much as I do.”
“Wisht! wisht!” muttered the young man, reproachfully; “I will not hear you speak so to him. Have done.”
“But you won’t let him strike me?” she cried.
“Come, then,” he whispered earnestly.
It was too late: Heathcliff had caught hold of her.
“Now, you go!” he said to Earnshaw. “Accursed witch! this time she has provoked me when I could not bear it; and I’ll make her repent it forever!”
He had his hand in her hair; Hareton attempted to release her locks, entreating him not to hurt her that once. Heathcliff’s black eyes flashed; he seemed ready to tear Catherine in pieces, and I was just worked up to risk coming to the rescue, when of a sudden his fingers relaxed; he shifted his grasp from her head to her arm, and gazed intently in her face. Then he drew his hand over his eyes, stood a moment to collect himself