oil painting from picture

oil painting from picture
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claude monet painting
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`I'll tell him that you say so, Linton. I couldn't affirm that you are,' observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion of what was evidently an untruth.
`And be here again next Thursday,' continued he, shunning her puzzled gaze. `And give him my thanks for permitting you to come--my best thanks, Catherine. And-and, if you did meet my father, and he asked you about me, don't lead him to suppose that I've been extremely silent and stupid: don't look sad and downcast, as you are doing--he'll be angry.'
`I care nothing for his anger,' exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be its object.
`But I do,' said her cousin, shuddering. `Don't provoke him against me, Catherine, for he is very hard.'
`Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?' I inquired. `Has he grown weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?'
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Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on his breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of exhaustion or pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for bilberries, and sharing the produce of her researches with me: she did not offer them to him, for she saw further notice would only weary and annoy.