"Oh, no, not now," pleads Violet, hastily. She rises hurriedly from her seat, and lays her disengaged hand on his lips. For once in her life she loses sight of her self-possession, and a blush, warm and rich as carmine, mantles on her cheek.,
"What's that?" asked Mona. "Don't speak of your mother as if she were a chromatic scale.",
Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his companion's metaphor, though in reality he understands it not at all..
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