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An' ye're no' to scale yer tea nor sup the sugar if ony's left in yer cup when ye're dune drinkin'. An' if ye drap yer piece on the floor ye're no' to gang efter it; ye're jist to let on ye've ett it. An' ye're no' 'Deed, Lizzie, interposed her husband, 'ye're the yin to think aboot things. 'Weel, John, if I dinna tell Macgreegor hoo to behave hissel', he'll affront me, etc., etc., etc.
"Ye're content, aiblins, noo ye've seen yer father's gray head bowed in the dust," he said. "'Twas an accident," pleaded James Moore. "But I am sorry. He thought yo' were goin' to beat the lad." "So I was so I will." "If ony's beat it should be ma Bob here tho' he nob'but thought he was doin' right. An' yo' were aff the path." The little man looked at his enemy, a sneer on his face.
Dinna moan like that, but tell us where ye're hurt. What are ye gatherin' round like that for an keepin' away the air? Hold up his head, Bauldie? Some o' ye lift his feet out o' the gutter? Run to the lade, for ony's sake, and bring some water in yir bonnets."
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