I got a book, and pretended to read.

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.

Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had produced: it was just what he intended.
'You may be right, Ellen,' she answered; 'but I shall never feel at ease till I know.

And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't write, and convince him that I shall not change.' What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity?
We parted that night--hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony.