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Updated: June 18, 2025
Petullo saw the lagging nature of her old love's advance; it was all that was needed now to make her evening horrible. "Oh!" said she, smiling, but still with other emotions than amusement or goodwill struggling in her countenance, "I was just fancying you would be none the waur o' a wife to look to your buttons." "Buttons!" repeated the Chamberlain.
I hate her! hate her! hate her!" "Thank God for that!" said the Chamberlain with a sudden memory of the purity she envied, and at these words Mrs. Petullo fell in a swoon upon the floor. "Lord, what's the matter?" cried her husband, running to her side, then crying for the maid. "I haven't the slightest idea," said Sim MacTag-gart.
"True, in a sense. The wretch but died. We must all die; we all know it, though none of us believe it." "I am glad to say that after all you only wounded yon Macfarlane; so Petullo learned but yesterday, and I clean forgot to tell you sooner." Montaiglon looked mightily relieved. "So!" said he; "I shall give a score of the best candles to St. Denys if I remember when I get home again.
"It's the glide's truth that," said the little man; "and for the oots and ins o't ye'll hae to ask Petullo doon-by, for he's at the root o't. Doom's done wi'; it's his decreet, and I'm no' a day ower soon wi' the promise o' the Red Sodger for the which I'm muckle obleeged to you, Factor. Doom's done; they're gaun awa' in a week or twa, and me and Annapla's to be left ahint to steek the yetts."
"What do you say, my dear?" cried out Petullo across the room, suspiciously. He fancied he had heard an over-eager accent in her last words, that were louder spoken than all that had gone before. Fortunately he could not make out her face as he looked, otherwise he would have seen, as Montaiglon did with some surprise, a mask of Tragedy. "I'm giving Mr.
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