Seems strange, doan't it, 'at onybody should be real fond o' that place?
When yo go by it i' winter, soomtimes, it lukes that lonesome, with t' churchyard coomin up close roun it, it's enoof to gie a body th' shivers.

But I do bleeve, Miss Charlotte she could ha kissed ivery stone in 't; an they do say, when she came back fro furrin parts, she'd sit an cry for joy, she wor that partial to Haworth.

It's a place yo do get to favour soomhow,' said the good woman, apologetically, as though feeling that no stranger could justly be expected to sympathise with the excesses of local patriotism.
Did th' oother sisters write books ?' demanded David, his eyes wandering over the bare stone house towards which the passionate heart of Charlotte Bronte had yearned so often from the land of exile.
'Bless yo, yes.

An theer's mony foak 'at think Miss Emily wor a deol cliverer even nor Miss Charlotte.

Not but what yo get a bad noshun o' Yorkshire folk fro Miss Emily's bukes--soa I'm towd.