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"What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down below. "You must understand," she says emphatically, "he did not shoot himself purposely. It was an accident,—a pure accident." "I seek my wife," said the man, "whom you have stolen. There hang her eyes.".
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Conrad
And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word,—however carefully concealed—falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity. At this Mr. Rodney moves a shade closer to her. His voice breaks: with a groan he sinks back again upon his pillow. "Oh, I have my work to do; and besides, I often prefer standing.".
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