Emily Brontë

Besides, he might come and begin a string of abuse or complainings; I’m certain I should recriminate, and God knows where we should end! Though I would give no information, he discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of residence, and the existence of the child. Still he didn’t molest her; for which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose. […] heedless of my expostulations and the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash around her […] ‘None of that nonsense! We’re not 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?’ Now, was it not the depth of absurdity—of genuine idiocy, for that pitiful, slavish, mean-minded brach to dream that I could love her?