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"You may bet anything you like on that," says Geoffrey, cheerfully. "She cares for me just about as much as I care for her,—which means exactly nothing." Geoffrey, springing down from the dog-cart that has been sent to the station to meet him, brushes the frost from his hair, and stamps his feet upon the stone steps. Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his companion's metaphor, though in reality he understands it not at all..

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Still she hesitates, though betraying no vulgar awkwardness or silly mauvaise honte. Indeed, the only sign of emotion she does show is a soft slow blush, that, mounting quickly, tips even her little ears with pink. She understands, indeed, that Sir Launcelot was a very naughty young man, who should not have been received in respectable houses,—especially as he had no money to speak of,—and that Sir Modred and Sir Gawain, had they lived in this critical age, would undoubtedly have been pronounced bad form and expelled from decent clubs. And, knowing this much, she takes it for granted that the stealing of a will or more would be quite in their line: hence her speech. "My son," he said to Scarface, "I will not forget what you have this day done for me. Tell me now what I can do for you; what is your trouble?" "Maybe," says Betty Corcoran, turning in a genial fashion to Mona and Geoffrey, "ye'd ate a pratie, would ye, now? They're raal nice an' floury. Ye must be hungry, Miss Mona, afther all the work ye've gone through; an' if you an' your gintleman would condescind to the like of my dinner, 'tis ready for ye, an' welcome ye are to it. Do, now!" heartily. "The praties is gran' this year,—praises be for all mercies. Amen.".