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Updated: June 18, 2025
He stooped and picked up from the confused heap of legal scrivenings by finger-tips that seemed to fear infection a parchment fouled with its passage through the courts and law offices. "You're in luck indeed," said he; "for there's Drimdarroch all that's left of it to me: the land itself is in the hands of my own doer, Petullo the writer down-by, and scab seize his bestial!"
"There's a wheen of Frenchmen, seemingly," said the writer, oracularly, taking to the trimming of his nails with a piece of pumice-stone he kept for the purpose, and used so constantly that they looked like talons. "Now, what the devil do you mean?" cried Mac-Taggart. "Go on, go on with your business," squeaked Petullo, with an eye upon an inner door that led to his household.
He was a moralist by repute, and he would have suspected without reasons. When Mrs. Petullo broke down miserably in her third verse, he smiled to himself pawkily, went up to her with a compliment, and confirmed his suspicions by her first question, which was as to the Chamberlain's absence. As for the Chamberlain, he was by now hurrying with great speed through the castle garden.
If that does not please your ladyship, you are ill to serve. And I would not just be saying that the game is finished altogether even yet, so long as I know where to lay my fingers on the Frenchman." She plucked her hands free, and ran from him without another word, glad for once of the sanctuary of a husband's door. Petullo was from home.
The Frenchman looked round him for a familiar face, and saw the Chamberlain in Highland dress in the midst of a little group of dames. Mrs. Petullo was not one of them.
The Circuit Court has left a pack of the legal gentlemen and jurymen there, who will not be persuaded to return to Edinburgh so long as the cellar at the inn holds out, and my doer, Mr. Petullo, expresses a difficulty in getting any other lodging." "I regret exceedingly "
"I do," said he, wondering what she was to be at next. "Poor man! I was aye sure your conscience would be the death of you some day. "Not Kate Cameron her I loved but Mrs. Petullo." "Whom you only made-believe to? That is spoken like a true Highland gentleman, Sim. I'm to be dismissed with just that amount of politeness that will save my feelings. I thought you knew me better, Sim.
The Baron had retired to his own room in the rear of the castle, and they had begun to talk of the departure that was now fixed for a date made imminent through the pressure of Petullo. Where were they bound for but France? Doom had decided upon Dunkerque because he had a half-brother there in a retirement compelled partly for political reasons Count Victor could appreciate.
Mrs. Petullo, without looking at his half-averted face, knew by the mere magnetic current from his cold shoulder that of her he was just now weary, that with his company as a whole he was bored, and that some interest beyond that noisy hall engaged his abstracted thought.
"My Grace is a little more judicious than to treat the casual pedestrian like a notour thief," said Argyll; "and yet, after all, I dare say the matter may be left to your good judgment that is, after you have had a word or two on the matter with Petullo, who will better be able to advise upon the rights to the persons of suspicious characters in our neighbourhood."
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