and though in the beginning she either left it at his approach, or quietly joined in my occupations, and shunned remarking or addressing him⁠—and though he was always as sullen and silent as possible⁠—after a while, she changed her behaviour, and became incapable of letting him alone: talking at him; commenting on his stupidity and idleness; expressing her wonder how he could endure the life he lived⁠—how he could sit a whole evening staring into the fire, and dozing.

“He’s just like a dog, is he not, Ellen?” she once observed, “or a carthorse? He does his work, eats his food, and sleeps eternally! What a blank, dreary mind he must have! Do you ever dream, Hareton? And, if you do, what is it about? But you can’t speak to me!”

Then she looked at him; but he would neither open his mouth nor look again.

“He’s, perhaps, dreaming now,” she continued. “He twitched his shoulder as Juno twitches hers. Ask him, Ellen.”