Guid-nicht, then, and see ye lick that ill laddie for near settin' the hoose on fire.

It's no' safe, I tell ye, to live onywhere near him noo that he's begun thae tricks.

Baith Peter an' him are fair Bolsheviks ...

Did I tell ye that Miss Reston sent me a grand feather-boa--grey, in a present?
I've aye had a notion o' a feather-boa, but I dinna ken how she kent that.

And this is no' yin o' the skimpy kind; it's fine and fussy and soft ...