Modern Art Painting

became daily more notable for savage sullenness and ferocity. I could not half tell what an infernal house we had. The curate dropped calling, and nobody decent came near us, at last; unless Edgar Linton's visits to Miss Cathy might be an exception. At fifteen she was the queen of the countryside; she had no peer; and she did turn out a haughty, headstrong creature! I own I did not like her, after her infancy was past; and I vexed her frequently by trying to bring down her arrogance: she never took an aversion to me, though.
She had a wondrous constancy to old attachments: even Heathcliff kept his hold on her affections unalterably; and young Linton, with all his superiority, found it difficult to make an equally deep impression. He was my late master: that is his portrait over the fireplace. It used to hang on one side, and his wife's on the other; but hers has been removed, or else you might see something of what she was. Can you make that out?

Modern Art Painting

could be too much squareness and，alludingto an old joke，I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managed toinduce hens to lay square eggs. Poirot laughed heartily. "Ah，you remember that?Alas!No-science has not yet induced the hens toconform to modern tastes，they still lay eggs of different sizes andcolours!"

I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking wonderfully well-hardly a day older than when I had lastseen him. "You're looking in fine fettle，Poirot，"I said."You've hardly aged atall.In fact，if it were possible，I should say that you had fewer grey hairsthan when I saw you last." Poirot beamed on me.