Look at him dashing about. My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.
The pots were her obsession. They need urgent work. If they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently, you have to just keep making tea in them.
I rang for the tea, and the waiter, reappearing with his magic clew, brought in by degrees some fifty adjuncts to that refreshment, but of tea not a glimpse.
Mr Heathcliff, perceiving us all confounded, rose, and expeditiously made the tea himself. The cups and saucers were laid ready. He poured it out, and handed me a cup.