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"How you remember that, now!" says Mona, with a heavenly smile, and a faint pressure of the fingers that still rest in his. "Yes, I should like to be sure before I marry you that—that—fashionable clothes would become me. But of course," regretfully, "you will understand I haven't a gown of that sort. I once sat in Lady Crighton's room while her maid dressed her for dinner: so I know all about it." "Ah, how you flatter!" says Mona. Nevertheless, being a woman, and the flattery being directed to herself, she takes it kindly. Cold, and half wild with horror, she yet retains her presence of mind, and, beckoning to one of the dogs, says imperiously, "At him, Spice!" pointing to Paul Rodney..

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"That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me." "It is for my sake; but it will break my heart." "Nevertheless, let me hear it," says the duchess. "I cannot forget that your face is musical." A strange scene presents itself to their expectant gaze. Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed of no flooring but the bare brown earth that Mother Nature has supplied. To their right is a huge fireplace, where, upon the hearthstone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Near it crouches an old woman with her blue-checked apron thrown above her head, who rocks herself to and fro in silent grief, and with every long-drawn breath—that seems to break from her breast like a stormy wave upon a desert shore—brings her old withered palms together with a gesture indicative of despair..