oil painting from picture

`And this young man is--'
`Not my son, assuredly.'
Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.
`My name is Hareton Earnshaw,' growled the other; `and I'd counsel you to respect it!'
`I've shown no disrespect,' was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.
He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralized, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.
The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.
`I don't think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,' I could not help exclaiming. `The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.