Jean. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o’ me; but it’s mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o’ William Brodie ... ill as it sets me.
Brodie. (You don’t know what is on my mind, Jennie, else you would forgive me.) Bow Street?
Jean. It’s the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal.
Brodie. Hunt?
Jean. He kens a hantle. He.... Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie! I said what I shouldna.
Brodie. Said? Said what?
Jean. Just that ye were a guid frien’ to me. He made believe he was awfu’ sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, “Wha tellt him that?” and that he lee’d.
Brodie. God knows he did! What next?
Jean. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he keept aye harp, harpin’; but after that let-out, he got neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae.