"Yet, in spite of all the fine feathers, no one ever crept into my heart but my own Mona," says the young man, putting his hand beneath her chin, which is soft and rounded as a baby's, and turning her face to his. He hates to see the faint chagrin that lingers on it for a moment; for his is one of those tender natures that cannot bear to see the thing it loves endure the smallest torment.,
"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed.,
"No; he was not a draper," says Mona, gently, and without haste..
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