Unmarked6698
- Flag inappropriate
- Show review history
"I am a stranger; I know nothing," she says again, hardly knowing what to say, and moving a little as though she would depart. Mr. Moore is her landlord, and the owner of the lovely wood behind Mangle Farm where Geoffrey came to grief yesterday. "Dearest Mona, I must interrupt you again. Are you very busy? No? Oh, then do come and look at the last bonnet Madame Verot has just sent. She says there will be nothing to equal it this season. But," in a heart-broken voice, "I cannot bring myself to think it becoming.".
453 people found this
review helpful
kez_ h (Kez_h)
- Flag inappropriate
- Show review history
Unlock a world of rewards at Guess Which Hand.com with our exclusive welcome package just for you! Sign up now to enjoy a 200% First Deposit Bonus, 100 Free Spins, and more exciting offers!I tried logging in using my phone number and I
was supposed to get a verification code text,but didn't
get it. I clicked resend a couple time, tried the "call
me instead" option twice but didn't get a call
either. the trouble shooting had no info on if the call
me instead fails.There was
⚡ Don't miss out on the limited-time offer at rummy 51 bonus 2023 withdrawal! Register today to claim your exciting bonuses and dive into a world of gaming excellence.
658 people found this
review helpful
Conrad
No one is listening, fortunately, to this gratuitous correction, or hot words might have been the result. Sir Nicholas and Geoffrey are laughing over some old story that has been brought to their recollection by this idle chattering about the Chetwoodes' ball; Jack and Violet are deep in some topic of their own. "But at the same time I must ask you to remember you are speaking of my wife." Mere beauty of form and feature will fade indeed, but Mona's beauty lies not altogether in nose or eyes or mouth, but rather in her soul, which compels her face to express its lightest meaning. It is in her expression, which varies with each passing thought, changing from "grave to gay, from lively to severe," as the soul within speaks to it, that her chief charm dwells. She is never quite the same for two minutes running,—which is the surest safeguard against satiety. And as her soul is pure and clean, and her face is truly the index to her mind, all it betrays but endears her to and makes richer him who reads it. "The only time I shed tears," says Mr. Darling, irrelevantly, "for many years, was when I heard of the old chap's death. And they were drops of rich content. Do you know I think unconsciously he impregnated her with her present notions; because he was as like an 'ancient Briton' himself before he died as if he had posed for it.".
298 people found this
review helpful