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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"The Marquis of Lossie"

She said nothing, but rose,
and permitted Malcolm to help her forward.
It was the moon's turn now to be level with the water, and as
Florimel stood on the larboard side, leaning over and gazing down,
she saw her shine through the little feather of spray the cutwater
sent curling up before it, and turn it into pearls and semiopals.
"She's got a bone in her mouth, you see, my lady," said old Travers.
"Go aft till I call you, Travers," said Malcolm.
Rose was in Florimel's cabin, and they were now quite alone.
"My lady," said Malcolm, "I can't bear to have you angry with me."
"Then you ought not to deserve it," returned Florimel.
"My lady, if you knew all, you would not say I deserved it."
"Tell me all then, and let me judge."
"I cannot tell you all yet, but I will tell you something which
may perhaps incline you to feel merciful. Did your ladyship ever
think what could make me so much attached to your father?"
"No indeed. I never saw anything peculiar in it. Even nowadays
there are servants to be found who love their masters. It seems to
me natural enough. Besides he was very kind to you."
"It was natural indeed, my lady--more natural than you think.
Kind to me he was, and that was natural too."
"Natural to him, no doubt, for he was kind to everybody.


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