At this moment one of the pigeons—a small, pretty thing, bronze-tinged—flies to her, and, resting on her shoulder, makes a tender cooing sound, and picks at her cheek reproachfully, as though imploring more corn.,
"Well, really!" says Mona, mistaking him. She moves back with a heightened color, disengages her hands from his and frowns slightly.,
"Yes," says Mona, devoutly hoping he is going to say he means to refuse it. But such devout hope is wasted..
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