"Better," says Mona, laughing gayly.,
"Oh, I dare say. Yes, sometimes: but—" she hesitates, and this time the expression of her face cannot be misunderstood: dejection betrays itself in every line—"but it is not so with you, is it? No aunt has left you anything?",
"What has Mr. Moore to do with you?" he asks, haughtily. "Who is he, that he should so speak to you?".
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