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sling, and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give
you the good rason.
The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first
day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the
strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a
gone case althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress Tracle.
I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's
truth. First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she
threw open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould
spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o' them and divil may burn me
if it didn't spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it,
through the spy-glass: "Och! the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye
are, sure enough, and it's mesilf and me forten jist that'll be at yur
sarvice, dear, inny time o' day at all at all for the asking." And it's
not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness; so I made her
a bow that wud ha' broken yur heart altegither to behould, and thin I
pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid
both eyes, as much as to say, "True for you, yer a swate little crature,
Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog,
if it's not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll make a
houl bushel o' love to yur leddyship, in the twinkling o' the eye of a
Londonderry purraty."
And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me mind
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