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"Oh, I don't know: that was a mere figure of speech," says Mr. Rodney, who is afraid to say such absences are caused by an innate love of freedom and a vile desire for liberty at any cost, and has nothing else handy. "Now don't stay moping up here when I go, but run downstairs and find the girls and make yourself happy with them." In truth he is. So when he has acknowledged the melancholy fact, they both laugh, with the happy enjoyment of youth, at their own discomfiture, and go back to the cottage good friends once more. "Has it?" says Rodney, fiercely. "Then I'll make the most of it," and before the other can find time to fire he flings himself upon him, and grasps his throat with murderous force..
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Conrad
Mona's waxen arms gleam like snow in the uncertain light. Each movement of hers is full of grace and verve. Her entire action is perfect. "I wonder what kind of songs you like best," says Mona, dreamily, letting her fingers run noiselessly over the keys of the Collard. "If you are like me, you like sad ones." In a doorway, somewhat out of the crush, Sir Nicholas is standing. His eyes are fixed on Dorothy, who is laughing with a gay and gallant plunger in the distance. He is looking depressed and melancholy; a shadow seems to have fallen into his dark eyes. And Mona had marked his embarrassment, and had quickly, with all the vivacity that belongs to her race, drawn her own conclusions therefrom, which were for the most part correct..
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