I stood by the kennel, of which I have formerly spoken, and, my
mind being at ease, my bodily organs were more delicate. I was
more sensible than heretofore, that, like the trade of Pompey in
MEASURE FOR MEASURE,--it did in some sort--pah an ounce of civet,
good apothecary! Turning from thence, my steps naturally
directed themselves to my own humble apartment, where my little
Highland landlady, as dapper and as tight as ever, (for old women
wear a hundred times better than the hard-wrought seniors of the
masculine sex), stood at the door, TEEDLING to herself a Highland
song as she shook a table napkin over the fore-stair, and then
proceeded to fold it up neatly for future service.
"How do you, Janet?"
"Thank ye, good sir," answered my old friend, without looking at
me; "but ye might as weel say Mrs. MacEvoy, for she is na
a'body's Shanet--umph."
"You must be MY Janet, though, for all that. Have you forgot me?
Do you not remember Chrystal Croftangry?"
The light, kind-hearted creature threw her napkin into the open
door, skipped down the stair like a fairy, three steps at once,
seized me by the hands--both hands--jumped up, and actually
kissed me.
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