Mona takes no notice of his words, but still stands by the table, with her hands folded, her long white robes clinging to her, her eyes lowered, her whole demeanor like that of some mediæval saint. So thinks Rodney, who is gazing at her as though he would forever imprint upon his brain the remembrance of a vision as pure as it is perfect.
The terrace aviator, "You must understand," she says emphatically, "he did not shoot himself purposely. It was an accident,—a pure accident."
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The terrace aviator "But you told me no maiden aunt had ever come to your assistance," goes on Mona, remorselessly..
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