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Rodney, with the boy at his side, is covering ground in a state of blissful uncertainty. He may be a mile from home, or ten miles, for all he knows, and the boy seems none the wiser. "It is really hardly worth talking about," she says, grandly. "I was foolish to lay so great a stress on such a trifling matter. It doesn't signify, not in the least. But—but," the blood mounting to her brow, "if ever you speak of it again,—if ever you even mention the word 'heather,'—I shall hate you!" "That was a little unfair, wasn't it?" says Mona. "Why didn't he divide it?".
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Conrad
It is a lovely old castle, ancient and timeworn, with turrets rising in unexpected places, and walls covered with drooping ivy, and gables dark with age. "That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me." "What's the matter with them?" says Mona, with some pardonable impatience. "Like that? Not a bit of it," says Geoffrey, who had given her two kisses for her one: "you mustn't expect it. She isn't in the least like that. She will meet you probably as though she saw you yesterday, and say, 'How d'ye do? I'm afraid you have had a very long and cold drive.' And then you will say——".
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