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"Donal Grant, by George MacDonald"

"
"A species of report," said Donal, "very likely to arise by a kind
of cryptogamic generation! The common people, accustomed to the
narrowest dwellings, gazing on the huge proportions of the place,
and upon occasion admitted, and walking through a succession of
rooms and passages, to them as intricate and confused as a
rabbit-warren, must be very ready, I should think, to imagine the
existence within such a pile, of places unknown even to the
inhabitants of it themselves!--But I beg your pardon: do tell us the
story."
"Mr. Grant," said Kate, "you perplex me! I begin to doubt if you
have any principles. One moment you take one side and the next the
other!"
"No, no; I but love my own side too well to let any traitors into
its ranks: I would have nothing to do with lies."
"They are all lies together!"
"Then I want to hear this one," said Donal.
"I daresay you have heard it before!" remarked Mr. Graeme, and
began.
"It was in the earldom of a certain recklessly wicked wretch, who
not only robbed his poor neighbours, and even killed them when they
opposed him, but went so far as to behave as wickedly on the Sabbath
as on any other day of the week. Late one Saturday night, a company
were seated in the castle, playing cards, and drinking; and all the
time Sunday was drawing nearer and nearer, and nobody heeding. At
length one of them, seeing the hands of the clock at a quarter to
twelve, made the remark that it was time to stop.


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