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"What say ye to bomb stanes at 'um?" suggested Donald. "An' kill 'im, maybe," returned Junkie, with sarcasm in his eye. "Heave divits at 'um, then." "Ay; that's better." Accordingly, the two urchins tore up a mass of turf which was much too heavy to heave. "Let's row'd," suggested the active-minded Donald.
"'God help you, woman! I said to mysel', 'it canna be bonnets it's stanes and divits mair likely that they're flinging at him. Syne I creeped out o' the manse. Dominie, you mind I passed you in the kitchen, and didna say a word?" Yes, I saw the precentor pass through the kitchen, with such a face on him as no man ever saw him wear again.
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