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"Malcolm, who was that lovely creature you were talking to just now?" asks his mother, as Lauderdale draws near her. "I wonder you do not hate me," says Mona, with a brokenhearted sob, "when you remember I am of the same blood as these wretches." "I wish I could have seen it better," returns Violet, "but, you see, I was playing.".
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One day one of the women said to the other, "It is very lonely here; we have no one to talk with or to visit." Castles within the fire grow grand and tall, and then crumble into dust; castles in Mona's brain fare likewise. The shadows dance upon the walls; silently imperceptibly, the minutes flit away. "But why should night produce melancholy?" says Nicholas, dreamily. "It is but a reflection of the greater light, after all. What does Richter call it? 'The great shadow and profile of day.' It is our own morbid fancies that make us dread it." "Because"—with a quick blush—"I am not accustomed to dancing much. Indeed, I only learned to-day, and I might not be able to dance with every one.".
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