"Well, Nelly," said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, "it's yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who's given us the slip now, do you think?"
"Who?" I asked in a flurry.
"Why, guess!" he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. "And nip up the corner of your apron: I'm certain you'll need it."
"Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?" I exclaimed.

'Well, Nelly,' said he, riding into the yard one morning, 'Who's given us the slip now, do you think?'
'Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?'
