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"You have not tired yourself, dear, I hope. The day has been so oppressively warm, more like July than May. Would you like your tea now, Violet? We can have it half an hour earner if you wish." "Thank you," says Geoffrey, a little dryly, accepting her words as they are said, not as he feels they are meant. "You are slightly nonsensical when on the subject of Mona," says Sir Nicholas, with a shrug. "Intrigue and she could not exist in the same atmosphere. She is to Lauderdale what she is to everyone else,—gay, bright, and utterly wanting in self-conceit. I cannot understand how it is that you alone refuse to acknowledge her charms. To me she is like a little soft sunbeam floating here and there and falling into the hearts of those around her, carrying light, and joy, and laughter, and merry music with her as she goes.".
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They don't want to endure the cold; but what can they say? Politeness forbids secession of any kind, and, after a few words with the saintly Philippa, they follow their guide in all meekness through halls and corridors out into the garden she most affects. "O Death! thou strange, mysterious power, seen every day yet never understood but by the incommunicative dead, what art thou?" "He had to see the mare made up, and the pigs fed," says Mona. "I am sorry I can tell you nothing," says Mona, shaking her head. "I was never in this wood before; I know nothing of it.".
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