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"She's awa to her Ennglish." Lizzy Johnstone. "Did we come to Veeneece to speak Scoetch, ye useless fule?" Christie. "Here, pale and hopeless, but resigned, stands the broken mairchant, Antonio; there, wi scales and knives, and revenge in his murderin' eye, stands the crewel Jew Shylock." "Aweel," muttered Sandy, considerately, "I'll no mak a disturbance on a wedding day." Christie.
"I can find whatever I want," said the unblushing bachelor, "except money." "Siller does na bide wi' slovens! hae ye often siccan a gale o' wind in your drawer?" "Every day! Speak English!" "Aweel! How do you do? that's Ennglish! I daur say." "Jolly!" cried he, with his mouth full. Christie was now folding up and neatly arranging his clothes. "Will you ever, ever be a painter?" "I am a painter!
"Dinna speak like that to me, onybody, or I shall gie ye my boat, and fling my nets intil it, as ye sail awa wi' her." Jean Carnie. "Sae he let the puir deevil go. Oh! ye ken wha could stand up against siccan a shower o' Ennglish as thaat." Christie. "He just said, 'My deeds upon my heed. I claim the law, says he; 'there is no power in the tongue o' man to alter me. I stay here on my boend."
I could paint the Devil pea-green!" "Dinna speak o' yon lad, Chairles, it's no canny." "No! I am going to paint an angel; the prettiest, cleverest girl in Scotland, 'The Snowdrop of the North." And he dashed into his bedroom to find a canvas. "Hech!" reflected Christie. "Thir Ennglish hae flattering tongues, as sure as Dethe; 'The Snawdrap o' the Norrth!"
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