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An hour later, coming out of it again, feeling harassed and anxious, he finds Dorothy walking restlessly up and down the corridor outside, as though listening for some sound she pines to hear. Her pretty face, usually so bright and debonnaire, is pale and sad. Her lips are trembling. CHAPTER XXIII. "No?" says Lauderdale, laughing. "But why, then? There is no other Mrs. Rodney, is there?".
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"Call off the dogs," says Geoffrey to Mona, in a low tone; "there is no longer any necessity for them. And tell me how you come to be here, at this hour, with this—fellow." "'Tis the English gintleman, miss,—Misther Rodney. He wants to see ye," says the fair Bridget, putting her head in at the doorway, and speaking in a hushed and subdued tone. "A week? I should be dead when you came back," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, with some vehemence, and a glance that shows she can dissolve into tears at a moment's notice. "Why, what have you to do with her?" says Ryan, addressing Rodney, a gleam of something that savors of amusement showing itself even in his ill-favored face. For an Irishman, under all circumstances, dearly loves "a courting, a bon-mot, and a broil.".
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