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Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
page 4 of 431 (00%)
under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye,
except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of
legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney
were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols:
and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters disposed
along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs,
high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy
black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser
reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm
of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.

The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary
as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn
countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-
breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his arm-chair,
his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be
seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you
go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a
singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-
skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that
is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly,
perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has
an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some
people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a
sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort:
I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy
displays of feeling - to manifestations of mutual kindliness.
He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of
impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I'm running on too
fast: I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr.
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