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"The heathen the skemp yon was the last o' the heathen hilt or hair o' him that I saw, and me mixed up wi' daftlike wars it was a packet that reached me in Dantzig," says he, "after lying a year, frae some sensible wench calling hersel' Helen Stockdale. . . ." I was dumb at that, but I was remembering the lass asking of the Scot that took the Pagan to the mouth of the Rouen river.
Ye'll hae my feet sterved to death wi' cauld. Lie up on your pillow an' lat the claes doon to the fit o' the bed." "The feint a-fear o' me," says he, the hertless skemp 'at he is. "If you want the canary i' the bed aside you, you can rise an' tak' him doon yersel'."
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