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She sighs, then looks at the sky, and—sighs again. It is the 14th of December, and "bitter chill." Upon all the lawns and walks at the Towers, "Nature, the vicar of the almightie Lord," has laid its white winding-sheet. In the long avenue the gaunt and barren branches of the stately elms are bowed down with the weight of the snow, that fell softly but heavily all last night, creeping upon the sleeping world with such swift and noiseless wings that it recked not of its visit till the chill beams of a wintry sun betrayed it. "There can be scarcely any question about that," says Lady Rodney, unwilling to let any occasion pass that may permit a slap at Mona..

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Mona, whose Irish blood by this time is at its hottest, on finding herself powerless to restrain the movements of Carthy any longer, had rushed to the wall near, and, made strong by love and excitement, had torn from its top a heavy stone. "Is that all?" says Violet, in a tone of surprise certainly, but as certainly in one of relief. She turns up one of the lamps, whilst Rodney still continues his contemplation of the wall before him. Conversation languishes, then dies. Mona, raising her hand to her lips, suppresses valiantly a yawn. "What has Mr. Moore to do with you?" he asks, haughtily. "Who is he, that he should so speak to you?".