going to hurt thee, Linton—isn't that thy name? Thou art thy mother's child, entirely! Where is my share in thee, puling chicken?"
He took off the boy's cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt his slender arms, and his small fingers; during which examination, Linton ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.
"Do you know me?" asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the limbs were all equally frail and feeble.
"No!" said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.
"You've heard of me, I dare say?"
"No," he replied again.
"No? What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for me! You are my son, then, I'll tell you; and your mother was a wicked slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed—Now, don't wince, and colour up! Though it is something to see you have not white blood—Be a
