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"I am glad of that," says Mona, nicely, as he pauses merely through a desire for breath, not from a desire for silence. "Nay, you can say all that on your way back, an' get a half-shot into the bargain," says old Scully, heartily. "You'll hardly beat the potheen I can give ye." He winks knowingly, pats Rodney kindly on the shoulder, and leads the way out of the house. Yet I think Geoffrey would willingly have bartered potheen, partridge, and a good deal more, for just one last glance at Mona's beautiful face before parting. Cheered, however, by the prospect that he may see her before night falls, he follows the farmer into the open air. "I am in no pain," says Mona, crimson with shame and mortification. "You mistake everything. I have not even a scratch on me; and—I have no shoes or stockings on me either, if you must know all!".
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Conrad
"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed. Slowly he draws from his pocket a paper, folded neatly, that looks like some old parchment. Mona draws her breath quickly, and turns first crimson with emotion, then pale as death. Opening it at a certain page, he points out to her the signature of George Rodney, the old baronet. "Oh, no, not now," pleads Violet, hastily. She rises hurriedly from her seat, and lays her disengaged hand on his lips. For once in her life she loses sight of her self-possession, and a blush, warm and rich as carmine, mantles on her cheek. "Not in England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says Mona..
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