So in silence, but hand in hand, they move back through the dewy meads, meeting no one until they reach the little wooden gate that leads to her home.,
"You?" says Mona, with extreme hauteur and an unpleasant amount of well-feigned astonishment. She does not deign to go to meet him, or even turn her head altogether in his direction, but just throws a swift and studiously unfriendly glance at him from under her long lashes.,
"Why not? it just suits him: 'A little, round, fat, oily man of——'".
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