At this moment one of the pigeons—a small, pretty thing, bronze-tinged—flies to her, and, resting on her shoulder, makes a tender cooing sound, and picks at her cheek reproachfully, as though imploring more corn.,
"What's the matter with them?" says Mona, with some pardonable impatience.,
Silence. Mona taps the mound beside her with impatient fingers, her mind being evidently great with thought..
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