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To him, however, all is different; and the hour is fraught with a tremulous joy, and with a vague sweet longing that means love as yet untold. She has shaken hands with everybody, and has kissed Lady Rodney, and is now being introduced to Mona. "I slept badly last night; I hardly slept at all," she says, plaintively, evading direct reply..
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It is an hour later. Afternoon draws towards evening, yet one scarcely feels the change. It is sultry, drowsy, warm, and full of a "slow luxurious calm." Just now, for example, a pause occurring in the conversation, Mona, fastening her eyes upon her Grace's neck, says, with genuine admiration,— "Never mind Larry," says the farmer, impatiently. "This is the seventh time he has died this year. But think of Misther Rodney here. Can't ye do something for him?" "Oh, no; because if you can sing at all—that is correctly, and without false notes—you must feel music and love it.".
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