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"Oh, yes, no doubt I am in the wrong, because I cannot bring myself to adore a vulgar girl who all day long shocks me with her Irishisms," goes on Lady Rodney, almost in tears, born of vexation. "A girl who says, 'Sure you know I didn't' or 'Ah, did ye, now,' or 'Indeed I won't, then!' every other minute. It is too much. What you all see in her I can't imagine. And you too, Violet, you condemn me, I can see.","Throw them away," said his father; "throw them both away. That is not a root digger; that is not a dog.","Eh?" says Lady Rodney.,"Now you are their friend forever," says Mona, in a pleased tone. "Once they do that, they mean to tell you they have adopted you. And they like very few people: so it is a compliment.","A mere nothing," says Nicholas, airily; "we were merely chaffing him a little, because you know what a mess he makes of anything of that sort he takes in hand.",Presently her cry is answered. A thick cloud of pigeons—brown and white and bronze and gray—come wheeling into sight from behind the old house, and tumble down upon her in a reckless fashion. They perch upon her head, her shoulders, her white soft arms, even her hands, and one, more adventurous than the rest, has even tried to find a slippery resting-place upon her bosom.,After all, she has proved a great success. She has fought her fight, and gained her victory; but the conquered has deep reason to be grateful to her victor.,"Was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where late he has been tenant. "You? Oh, Mona!",Her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. Lady Rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted.,"Well, at all events I shan't go one moment before I said I should," says Rodney.,"Very pretty indeed, and quite good taste and that. She's a Mrs. Lennox, and her husband is our master of the hounds. She is always quite correct in the matter of clothes." There is an awful reservation in her Grace's tone, which is quite lost upon Mona. "But she is by no means little in her own opinion, and in fact rather prides herself upon her—er—form generally," concludes the duchess, so far at a loss for a word as to be obliged to fall back upon slang.,Only a little withered bunch of heather, tied by a blade of grass! Nothing more!.