"
"Call her your own pard, old Tuncan MacPhail, my sweet laty, and
haf ta patience with her, and she'll pe telling you aall apout
eferyting, only you must gif her olt prams time to tumple temselfs
apout. Her head grows fery stupid.--Yes, as she was saying, after
ta ploody massacre at Culloden, her father had to hide himself away
out of sight, and to forge himself--I mean to put upon himself a
name tat tidn't mean himself at aal. And my poor mother, who pored
me--pig old Tuncan--ta fery tay of ta pattle, would not be
hearing won wort of him for tree months tat he was away; and when
he would pe creep pack like a fox to see her one fine night when
ta moon was not pe up, they'll make up an acreement to co away
together for a time, and to call temselfs MacPhails. But py and py
tey took their own nems again."
"And why haven't you your own name now? I'm sure it's a much prettier
name."
"Pecause she'll pe taking the other, my tear laty."
"And why?"
"Pecause--pecause ... She will tell you another time. She'll pe
tired to talk more apout ta cursed Cawmills this fery tay."
"Then Malcolm's name is not MacPhail either?"
"No, it is not, my lady."
"Is he your son's son, or your daughter's son."
"Perhaps not, my laty."
"I want to know what his real name is. Is it the same as yours? It
doesn't seem respectable not to have your own names."
"Oh yes, my laty, fery respectable. Many coot men has to porrow nems
of teir neighpours.
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