“I got it, my lord, whaur there’s mair like it.”
“Show me them.”
“I hae shawn ye plenty for a swatch (pattern), my lord.”
“You refuse?” said the marquis; and the tone of the question was like the first cold puff that indicates a change of weather.
“I div, my lord,” she answered imperturbably.
“If they are not my property, why do you bring me this?”
“Are they your property, my lord?”
“This is my handwriting.”
“Ye alloo that?”
“Certainly, my good woman. You did not expect me to deny it?”