As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr. Heathcliff’s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide.
You cut her off from her admirer and then chastise her for having feelings about it - what the fuck is wrong with everyone in this goddamn book?
