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Never min' 'at I'm a lassie: naebody 'ill ken! 'Ye can put aff yer ain! 'My feet's no sae hard as yours! 'Weel, I'll put on mine. They're here, sic as they are. Ye see I want them gangin throuw the heather wi' Steenie; that's some sair upo the feet. Straucht up hill throuw the heather, and I'll put my sheen on! 'I'm no sae guid uphill. 'See there noo, Francie!
Oh, what a cold wretch you are, Frances! You don't deserve a lover like Philip Arnold no, you don't." "He is not my lover, he is yours." "Mine? No, thank you there, he is walking down the Rose-path. He is sick of waiting, poor fellow! I am off to Mrs. Carnegie. Oh, for goodness' sake, Francie, don't look so foolish!"
"You'd do well to read it it's worth the trouble," Alphonse de Brecourt remarked, going over to his wife. Francie saw him kiss her as he noted her tears. She was angry at her own; she choked and swallowed them; they seemed somehow to put her in the wrong. "Have you had no idea that any such monstrosity would be perpetrated?" Mme. de Cliche went on, coming nearer to her.
The morning after Francie had passed with such an air from Gaston's sight and left him planted in the salon he had remained ten minutes, to see if she would reappear, and then had marched out of the hotel she received by the first post a letter from him, written the evening before.
In her French way, and not so very French either, I think she's as pretty though not so distinguished, not so alluring as Irene. Because she was alluring, wasn't she? with that white skin and those dark eyes, and that hair, couleur de what was it? I always forget." "Feuille morte," Francie prompted. "Of course, dead leaves so strange.
"Then why do you let her do it?" Lionel said, in his impetuous way. "Why don't you get in somebody to help her? Look here, I'll pay for that. You call in a seamstress to do all that sewing, and I'll give her a sovereign a week. Why should Francie have her eyes ruined?" "Lionel is like the British government, Mrs. Moore," Mangan said, with a smile.
This Janet M'Clour was a big lass, being taller than the curate; and what made her look the more so, she was kilted very high. It seemed for a while she would not come, and Francie heard her calling Haddo a "daft auld fule," and saw her running and dodging him among the whins and hags till he was fairly blown.
It ain't true YOU care what I wrote, is it?" he pursued, addressing himself again to Francie. After a moment she raised her eyes. "Did you write it yourself?" "What do you care what he wrote or what does any one care?" Delia again interposed. "It has done the paper more good than anything every one's so interested," said Mr. Flack in the tone of reasonable explanation.
It seemed to Francie that her companion had managed to form a pretty strong dislike towards that young lady, considering how little he could possibly know of her.
Flack had responded, and this inspiration had become a living fact qualified only by the "mercy," to Delia Dosson, that the other two gentlemen were not at home. "Suppose they SHOULD get in?" she had said lugubriously to her sister. "Well, what if they do?" Francie had asked. "Why the count and the marquis won't be interested in Mr. Flack." "Well then perhaps he'll be interested in them.
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