Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago he sent me a brace of grouse-the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that I had a great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters and leeches? This is quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she had gone. 
Mr. Heathcliff honoured me with a call. About seven days ago he sent me a brace of grouse. Scoundrel! He is to blame for my illness; as I had a great mind to tell him. But how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and leeches?
Being too weak to read, I rang Mrs. Dean and asked her to finish her tale. 