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De'il tak' ye, ye lang-leggit, lazy loun, flichterin' roun' wi' yir 'Gude evenin' sir! an' a' sic' clishmaclaver. Awa' wi ye! dinna come fleechin' tae me! The kintra's I-sy wi' sic' haverils, comin' sundoonin' on puir folk 'at henna mickle mair nir eneugh fir thir ain sel's. Tak' aff yir coat an' wark, ye glaikit-De'il tak' ye; wha' fir ye girnin' at?" "Gude save's!"
When the brothers released him from their den, and he went to Miss Mary, standing at the kitchen door, eager for his company, with a flush on her cheek and a bright new ribbon at her neck, he laid those points before her. "Tuts!" said she, pressing food on him her motherhood's only cure for all a child's complaints "they're only haverils. They cannot make a soger of you against your will.
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