ture to stir, or raise his head, and Catherine could not move, on his account—"Because that lad yonder, seems determined to beat me—and I'd thank his uncle to be quick, and go before him—Hallo! Has the whelp been playing that game long? I did give him some lessons about snivelling. Is he pretty lively with Miss Linton generally?"
"Lively? no—he has shown the greatest distress;" I answered. "To see him, I should say, that instead of rambling with his sweetheart on the hills, he ought to be in bed, under the hands of a doctor."
"He shall be, in a day or two," muttered Heathcliff "But first—get up, Linton! Get up!" he shouted. "Don't grovel on the ground, there—up this moment!"
Linton had sunk prostrate again in another paroxysm of helpless fear, caused by his father's glance towards him, I suppose, there was nothing else to produce such humiliation.
