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Geoffrey, who would be at any moment as polite to a dairymaid as to a duchess, follows her, and, much to her discomfort,—though she is too civil to say so,—helps her to lay the table. He even insists on filling a dish with the potatoes, and having severely burned his fingers, and having nobly suppressed all appearance of pain,—beyond the dropping of two or three of the esculent roots upon the ground,—brings them in triumph to the spot where Mona is sitting. "It will strengthen you," he says, persuasively. It touches the hearts of all who hear it as she sings it and brings tears to the eyes of the duchess. So used the little fragile daughter to sing who is now chanting in heaven!.
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Even this is a small, if unconscious, cut, considering what objectionable curiosity he evinced about her name. But the Australian is above small cuts, for the good reason that he seldom sees them. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," says Mona, with a shudder. "It isn't at all nice of you; and especially when you know how miserable I am about my poor country." "You see, I was so filled with the novelty of the idea that it is the correct thing to weep when seated on your highest pinnacle of bliss, that I forgot to put my fingers in my ears again for a few moments, so I heard him say, 'Are you sure you love me?' whereupon she said, 'Are you quite sure you love me?' with lots of emphasis. That finished me! Did you ever hear such stuff in your life?" demands Mr. Darling, feeling justly incensed. "When they have been gazing into each other's eyes and boring us all to death with their sentimentality for the last three months, they coolly turn round and ask each other if they are sure they are in love!" "There is no need for regret, darling," says he. "I am heart-whole, and I know no woman that loves me, or for whose affection I should ask, except yourself.".
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