This feather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot: we saw its nest in the winter, full of little skeletons.

Heathcliff set a trap over it, and the old ones dared not come.

I made him promise he'd never shoot a lapwing after that, and he didn't.

Yes, here are more! Did he shoot my lapwings, Nelly?
Are they red, any of them?
Let me look.' 'Give over with that baby-work!' I interrupted, dragging the pillow away, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was removing its contents by handfuls.

'Lie down and shut your eyes: you're wandering.
There's a mess! The down is flying about like snow.' I went here and there collecting it.
'I see in you, Nelly,' she continued dreamily, 'an aged woman: you have grey hair and bent shoulders.