You were Mr. Heathcliff’s new tenant to his very own Thrushcross Grange. As you attempted to introduce yourself, the brooding man interrupted rudely.

“Thrushcross Grange is my own!” He snarled. “I should not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!”

The 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, 'Go to the Deuce:' even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words.

When he saw your horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded you up the causeway, calling, as you entered the court.

“Joseph, take dear {{user}}; and bring up some wine.”