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"Very good, miss; I'm going," says the woman, and with a last touch to the butter she covers it over with a clean wet cloth and moves to the yard door. The two chickens on the threshold, who have retreated and advanced a thousand times, now retire finally with an angry "cluck-cluck," and once more silence reigns. "Do you mean you will not marry me?" asks he, letting her go, and moving back a step or two, a frown upon his forehead. "I confess I do not understand you." "Good gracious! he can't mean that he is tired of her already," exclaims Mr. Darling, in an audible aside. "That would be too much even for our times.".
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Seeing brandy, on a table near, she pours a little into a glass with a shaking hand, and passing her arm beneath his neck, holds it to his parched lips. says Mr. Rodney, airing his bit of Dryden with conscious pride, in that it fits in so nicely. "At all events, you can't call it, "Then why don't you go back?" suggests Mona, simply. "I was not listening at the door," says Mona, with dignity, yet with extreme difficulty: some hand seems clutching at her heart-strings, and he who should have been near to succor her is far away. "I never," haughtily, "listened at a door in all my life. I should not understand how to do it." Her Irish blood is up, and there is a distinct emphasis upon the pronoun. "You have wronged me twice!".
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