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Perhaps Longfellow has more cleverly—and certainly more tenderly—than any other poet described the earlier approaches of the god of Love, when he says,— "Don't let us quarrel," he says, lovingly. And this time she returns his caress very fondly, though she cannot lose sight of the fact that he has committed a social error not to be lightly overlooked. "The village is two miles farther on. I think you had better come in and breakfast here. Uncle will be very glad to see you," she says, hospitably. "And you must be tired.".
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"Does it? I was bred in a different belief. In my world the mighty do no wrong; and a third son is nowhere. He is shunted; handed on; if possible, scotched. The sun is not made for him, or the first waltz, or caviare, or the 'sweet shady side' of anything. In fact, he 'is the man of no account' with a vengeance!" At this Mona breaks into a sweet but ringing laugh, that makes Lady Rodney (who is growing sleepy, and, therefore, irritable) turn, and fix upon her a cold, reproving glance. "You see, I was so filled with the novelty of the idea that it is the correct thing to weep when seated on your highest pinnacle of bliss, that I forgot to put my fingers in my ears again for a few moments, so I heard him say, 'Are you sure you love me?' whereupon she said, 'Are you quite sure you love me?' with lots of emphasis. That finished me! Did you ever hear such stuff in your life?" demands Mr. Darling, feeling justly incensed. "When they have been gazing into each other's eyes and boring us all to death with their sentimentality for the last three months, they coolly turn round and ask each other if they are sure they are in love!" "I wonder," she says to herself, softly, "whether he will be with me at the usual hour to-morrow, or,—a little earlier!".
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