The Devil Is the Matter, I Muttered

Mr Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm. The hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. A lusty dame with tucked-up gun, bare arms and fire-flushed cheeks rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying pan. She only remained heaving like a sea after a high wind when her master entered on the scene. He asked me in a manner that I could ill endure after this inhospitable treatment. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I'm willing to own, hardly know how to receive them.