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Updated: May 13, 2025
Morin, dragging the toboggan behind him and walking with his grey head bent forward to the gale, was sullen at being driven in the service of thieves; afraid lest some sinister design was still intended, he cast constant glances of cunning suspicion at Courthope.
There's no sic a bein' o' the face o' the yearth, as a descendant o' that Glenlyon." "It makes little difference, I fear," said Mrs Courthope, who was no bad logician. "The question isn't whether or not there's anybody to forgive, but whether Duncan MacPhail is willing to forgive." "That I do believe he is, mem; though he wad be as sair astonished to hear 't as ye are yersel'."
Courthope strolled through the rooms, the doors of which were now open. Morin permitted this scant liberty chiefly, the prisoner thought, because of a wholesome fear of being kicked. In the library at the back of the drawing-room he found amusement in reading the titles of the books down one long shelf and up another. Every book to which Madge had had access had an interest for him.
And therefore, was not the late Professor Courthope right when he declared, "I take all great poetry to be not so much what Plato thought it, the utterance of individual genius, half inspired, half insane, as the enduring voice of the soul and conscience of man living in society"? Answers to such questions as these depend somewhat upon the "romantic" or "classic" bias of the critics.
"I would make any arrangements you or he might wish," he said. "He should take his meals with Mrs Courthope, have a bedroom to himself and be required only to look after the yacht, and now and then do some bit of business I could n't trust any one else with." The highlander's pride was nearly satisfied. "So," he said, "it 'll pe his own henchman my lort will pe making of her poy?"
The marquis could not return her embrace: he could only receive her into the depths of his shining, tearful eyes. "Flory!" he murmured, "I'm going away. I'm going I've got to make an apology. Malcolm, be good " The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his countenance: he had to carry it with him. He was dead. Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs. Courthope ran to her assistance.
True, it was not often she appeared on the shore in the evening; nevertheless he kept watching the dune with his keen eyes, for he had hinted to Mrs Courthope that perhaps her young lady would like to see the boats go out.
He was thankful to think that the falling flakes must soon begin to obscure his figure, but he did not dare to try another plan of walking while she watched, lest she should see him stop again. Courthope had struck across to the main road at right angles to the poplar avenue.
There was a half angelic, half dog-like entreaty in his up looking hazel eyes that seemed to draw hers down into his: she must put a stop to that. "Get up, Malcolm," she said kindly, "what would my father or Mrs Courthope think?" "I dinna ken, an' I maist dinna care; atween ae thing an' anither, I'm near han' distrackit," answered Malcolm, rising slowly, but not taking his eyes from her face.
"Tell me the whole story," he said at length. Mrs Courthope again reflected, and began. I will tell the story, however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he regards it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough avoid this bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut across to the next chapter. In an ancient time there was a lord of Lossie who practised unholy works.
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