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CHAPTER II. "Nevertheless, to oblige me," entreats he, hastily. "Yes, very glad," returns he, hardly knowing what he says. He has gone back again to his first thoughts,—his mother's boudoir, with its old china, and its choice water-colors that line the walls, and its delicate Italian statuettes. In his own home—which is situated about fourteen miles from the Towers, and which is rather out of repair through years of disuse—there are many rooms. He is busy now trying to remember them, and to decide which of them would look best decked out in crimson and gray, or blue and silver: he hardly knows which would suit her best. Perhaps, after all——.
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In the death-chamber silence reigns. No one moves, their very breathing seems hushed. Paul Rodney's eyes are closed. No faintest movement disturbs the slumber into which he seems to have fallen. "We are not so altogether murderous as you seem to think," says Mona, half apologetically. And so they are married, and last words are spoken, and adieux said, and sad tears fall, and for many days her own land knows Mona no more. He draws Mrs. Geoffrey's hand through his arm, and goes towards the lodge..
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