He groans within him that he cannot think of any speech bordering on the Grandisonian, that may be politely addressed to this sylvan nymph; but all such speeches fail him. Who can she be? Were ever eyes so liquid before, or lips so full of feeling?,
Paul, dropping on his knees before her, releases her gown; the fold is in his grasp, and still holding it he looks up at her, his face pale and almost haggard.,
"Do not stir. Your head is badly cut, an' it bleeds still," says Mona, with a shoulder. "I cannot stop it. Oh, what shall I do?".
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