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'He's left th' gate at t' full swing, and Miss's pony has trodden dahn two rigs o' corn, and plottered through, raight o'er into t' meadow! Hahsomdiver, t' maister 'ull play t' devil to-morn, and he'll do weel. He's patience itsseln wi' sich careless, offald craters patience itsseln he is! Bud he'll not be soa allus yah's see, all on ye! Yah mun'n't drive him out of his heead for nowt!
Wisht, wisht; you mun'n't go on so. Come in, and I'll cure that: there now, hold ye still. With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.
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