Unmarked6698
- Flag inappropriate
- Show review history
"Where is Mona?" "Mr. Maxwell! Mr. Maxwell!" cries Mona, as he approaches them; and the heavy man, drawing up, looks round at her with keen surprise, bending his head a little forward, as though the better to pierce the gloom. For the first time Mona learns she is not like this well-regulated young woman. She falls lamentably short of such excellence. She cannot bring herself to think the world of those she loves well lost for any consideration whatever. And after all—this horrid condition—it would be over in a moment. And she could run home with the coveted paper, and bathe her face in sweet cold water. And then again she shudders. Could she bathe the remembrance of the insult from her heart?.
453 people found this
review helpful
kez_ h (Kez_h)
- Flag inappropriate
- Show review history
⚡ Join the Call Break Craze Today!I tried logging in using my phone number and I
was supposed to get a verification code text,but didn't
get it. I clicked resend a couple time, tried the "call
me instead" option twice but didn't get a call
either. the trouble shooting had no info on if the call
me instead fails.There was
⚡ Step into the realm of rummy golds dragon vs tiger and discover a treasure trove of gaming delights. With every card dealt, every spin made, and every bet placed, the thrill of victory awaits you. Are you bold enough to take on the challenge?
658 people found this
review helpful
Conrad
"Good-by," says Mona, softly, giving him her hand. He keeps it fast in both his own. Just at this moment it dawns upon her for the first time that this man loves her with a love surpassing that of most. The knowledge does not raise within her breast—as of course it should do—feelings of virtuous indignation: indeed, I regret to say that my heroine feels nothing but a deep and earnest pity, that betrays itself in her expressive face. "Now tell me something else," she says, after a little bit. "Do all the women you know dress a great deal?" "No?" says Lauderdale, laughing. "But why, then? There is no other Mrs. Rodney, is there?" "Yes," she says, with cheeks colored to a rich carmine, and flashing eyes, and lips that quiver in spite of all her efforts at control, "that is the bit of heather you gave me, and that is the grass that tied it. I kept it because it reminded me of a day when I was happy. Now," bitterly, "I no longer care for it: for the future it can only bring back to me an hour when I was grieved and wounded.".
298 people found this
review helpful