I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant might shew himself.
After a short suspense it was opened by a tall, gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders; and his eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine's, with all their beauty annihilated.
"What's your business here?" he demanded, grimly. "Who are you?"
"My name was Isabella Linton," I replied. "You've seen me before, sir. I'm lately married to Mr. Heathcliff; and he has brought me here—I suppose by your permission."
"Is he come back, then?" asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf.
"Yes—we came just now," I said; "but he left me by the kitchen door; and when I would have gone in, your little boy played
