"as Mrs. Dean would persuade me to believe. She's a beauty, it is true; but not an angel."
Earnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen.
"Remove them yourself," she said; pushing them from her, as soon as she had done; and retiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of birds and beasts, out of the turnip parings in her lap.
I approached her, pretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied, adroitly dropped Mrs. Dean's note onto her knee, unnoticed by Hareton—but she asked aloud—
"What is that?" And chucked it off.
"A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange," I answered, annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it should be imagined a missive of my own.
She would gladly have gathered it up, at this information, but Hareton beat her; he
