washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair.

‘Oh, I’ll ask YOU, uncle,’ cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the housekeeper’s assertion. ‘That is not my cousin, is he?’

‘Yes,’ he, replied, ‘your mother’s nephew. Don’t you like him!’

Catherine looked queer.

‘Is he not a handsome lad?’ he continued.

The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence in Heathcliff’s ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I perceived he was very sensitive to suspected slights, and had obviously a dim notion of his inferiority. But his master or guardian chased the frown by exclaiming -