"But I like Bobby Burns best. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. Meantime, the lady had overtaken them; but, terrified by the menaces of her vindictive kinsmen, she did not dare to reveal herself to her husband, of whose concealment on the roof of the very house the party were searching she was aware. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages.
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