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"I wad be the son o' the puirest fisher wife i' the Seaton raither nor hers," said Malcolm gloomily. "An' it shaws ye better bred," said Miss Horn. "But she'll be at ye or lang an' tak ye tent what ye say. Dinna flee in her face; lat her jaw awa', an' mark her words. She may lat a streak o' licht oot o' her dirk lantren oonawaurs." Malcolm returned to Mr Graham.
"At ony public meetin', my lord, ye hae as guid a richt to be present, as the puirest body i' the lan'. An' forbye that, as lord o' the place, ye hae a richt to ken what's gaein' on: I dinna ken hoo far the richt o' interferin' gangs; that's anither thing a'thegither." "I see you're a thorough going rebel yourself." "Naething o' the kind, my lord.
The puirest farmer widna refuse to gie a stranger a lift if he was gaun the same way as himsel', even if it was only a kairt that he had, an' it loaded to the brim." "Can't help it," replied he of the buttons, with a grin. "Off you get at the next station, or we'll put you off without ceremony." "But I'll no gang aff, if I may be sae bold as to tell ye!" said the now angry farmer.
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