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Of all this Mona is unaware; though even were it otherwise I doubt if a lie could come trippingly to her lips, or a nice evasion be balanced there at a moment's notice. Such foul things as untruths are unknown to her, and have no refuge in her heart. It is indeed fortunate that on this occasion she knows no reason why her reply should differ from the truth, because in that case I think she would stand still, and stammer sadly, and grow uncomfortably red, and otherwise betray the fact that she would lie if she knew how. Mona calls off the dogs. They rise unwillingly, and, walking into a distant corner, sit there, as though still awaiting a chance of taking some active part in the coming fray. After which Mona, in a few words, explains the situation to Geoffrey. "You needn't tell me that. I'm positive they couldn't be named in the same day," says Geoffrey, enthusiastically, who never in his life saw Lady Crighton, or her neck or arms..
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"No; but I can fancy him, with his horrid bald head. Now, you know," holding up his hand to stop her as she is about to speak, "you know you said he hadn't a hair left on it." Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Again she has grown silent, as though oppressed with thought; and he too is mute, but all his mind is crowded with glad anticipations of what the near future is to give him. He has no regrets, no fears. At length, struck by her persistent taciturnity, he says, "What is it, Mona?" 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,—.
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