Wuthering Heights - by Emily Bronte
I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me:
how powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it
from his hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the
expression my face assumed during a brief second: it was not
horror, it was covetousness. He snatched the pistol back,
jealously; shut the knife, and returned it to its concealment.
'I don't care if you tell him,' said he. 'Put him on his guard,
and watch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his
danger does not shock you.'
'What has Heathcliff done to you?' I asked. 'In what has he
wronged you, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn't it be
wiser to bid him quit the house?'
'No!' thundered Earnshaw; 'should he offer to leave me, he's a dead
man: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to
lose ALL, without a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a
beggar? Oh, damnation! I WILL have it back; and I'll have HIS
gold too; and then his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It
will be ten times blacker with that guest than ever it was before!'
You've acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master's habits. He is
clearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I
shuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant's ill-bred
moroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his
moody walk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen.