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The Australian seems particularly struck with this fact. He stares in a thoughtful fashion at the wall with the small panels, seeming blind to the other beauties of the room. "Such presumption, walking in our wood without permission," she says, haughtily. Again she has grown silent, as though oppressed with thought; and he too is mute, but all his mind is crowded with glad anticipations of what the near future is to give him. He has no regrets, no fears. At length, struck by her persistent taciturnity, he says, "What is it, Mona?".
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Conrad
"Yes, I dare say," says Lady Rodney, who is now wondering when this high-flown visitor will take her departure. "I suffer nothing: I have no pain now. I am inexpressibly, happy," replies he, with a smile radiant, though languid. Forgetful of his unfortunate state, he raises his other hand, and, bringing it across the bed, tries to place it on Mona's. But the action is too much for him. His face takes a leaden hue, more ghastly than its former pallor, and, in spite of an heroic effort to suppress it, a deep groan escapes him. "I do adore somebody," returns that ingenuous youth, staring openly at Mona, who is taking up the last stitch dropped by Lady Rodney in the little scarlet silk sock she is knitting for Phyllis Carrington's boy. "Well?" says Violet, who is smiling, and seems to see a joke where Mona fails to see anything amusing..
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