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"She was very nice to me," says Mona, "and is, I think, a very pleasant old lady. She asked me to go and see her next Thursday." "Sir," says Mr. Rodney, taking no notice of this preamble, "I shall trouble you to explain what you mean by reducing an inoffensive shoulder-blade to powder." "Dear Lady Rodney," she says, in a tremulous tone, "are you quite sure the note was from that—that man?".
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Mona, who has blushed rosy red at his kiss, is now beaming on her lover, and has drawn back her skirts to admit of his coming a little closer to her. He is not slow to avail himself of this invitation, and is now sitting with his arm thrown across the back of the wooden chair that holds Mona, and with eyes full of heartfelt gladness fixed upon her. "I wasn't," says Mona: "I went out a great deal. All day long I was in the open air. That is what made my hands so brown last autumn." "Why?" demands her mistress, somewhat haughtily. "I suppose even the English gentleman, as you call him, can see butter with dying! Show him in at once." "I parted the leaves of the laurel with cautious hand and looked down. At my very feet were Jack and Violet, and"—mysteriously—"she was pinning a flower into his coat!".
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