“Indeed I think I have,” replied the good woman, although she knew she would in all likelihood be a heavy loser by her honesty. “Here’s the gown,” and, taking the pattern out of my hand, “see, it’s just the thing—aye, just a bit o’ the self-same. Whaur in a’ the warld got ye the swatch? Surely it’s no canny to meddle wi’ you, you’re an awfu’ man; but, do ye ken, I canna think after a’ that that gown was stown.”
“I never said it was, Mrs Thick.”
“Aye, but it’s a sign o’ dead hens when the farmer rins after the fox that has loupit the yett.”
“And I never said it was not,” replied I, for I had reasons to be cautious.
“Weel, to be honest, Mr M‘Levy, I really dinna think it was.”
“Just because it was brought to me by that industrious creature Lizzy Gorman.”
“That’s the handsome hawker, as the young chaps call her?” said I.
“Just the same.”
“And what makes you have so much faith in Elizabeth?”