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Geoffrey removes the heavy lace that lies round her throat, and then leads her up to the hearthrug nearly opposite to his mother's arm-chair. "You are very kind. The river is greatly swollen," she says, to gain time. Geoffrey, perhaps, will not like her to accept any civility at the hands of this common enemy. "Very," returns he, surprised. He has not thought of her as one versed in lore of any kind. "What poets do you prefer?".
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Weasel Heart asked him, "Did you see me?" "Yes, if it is fine," says Mona, after a faint hesitation. And, oh! she dances such a way, "Where are you now, Mona?" asks Geoffrey, suddenly, laying his hand with a loving pressure on her shoulder. "In Afghanistan or Timbuctoo? Far from us, at least." There is a little vague reproach and uneasiness in his tone..
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