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"O, keepit, keepit!" wailed my uncle. "We'll have nae bloodshed, if you please." "Well," says Alan, "as ye please; that'll be the dearer." "The dearer?" cries Ebenezer. "Would ye fyle your hands wi' crime?" "Hoot!" said Alan, "they're baith crime, whatever! And the killing's easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad'll be a fashious job, a fashious, kittle business."
Ye'll see there why the old Scottish stock grows firm and strong and the bit, bleak country breeds men who make it respected across the world. Man, if I had not rheumatism and some fashious business I cannot neglect, we would take the moors together!" "You don't seem to like the smart hotels," Foster remarked, half amused. "I do not like the folk they harbor.
"Well," says Alan, "as ye please; that'll be the dearer." "The dearer?" cries Ebenezer. "Would ye fyle your hands wi' crime?" "Hoot!" said Alan, "they're baith crime, whatever! And the killing's easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad'll be a fashious* job, a fashious, kittle business." * Troublesome. "I'll have him keepit, though," returned my uncle.
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