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"Never mind Larry," says the farmer, impatiently. "This is the seventh time he has died this year. But think of Misther Rodney here. Can't ye do something for him?" "That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me." "Coolnagurtheen.".
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Then Geoffrey offers Mona his hand, and leads her to the centre of the polished floor. There they salute each other in a rather Grandisonian fashion, and then separate. "That is absurd," says Rodney; "and your own words refute you. That man called Moore cared for you, and very great impertinence it was on his part." "Ah! sure you know I wouldn't do that, now," returns she, with a stronger touch of her native brogue than she has used for many a day; at which they all laugh heartily, even Lady Rodney chiming in as easily as though the day had never been when she had sneered contemptuously at that selfsame Irish tongue. The very air is still. There is no sound, no motion, save the coming and going of their own breath as it rises quickly from their hearts, filled full of passionate admiration for the loveliness before them..
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