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"There, don't cry, and you shall have it all your own way," he says, with a sigh. "To-morrow we will decide what is to be done." "Yet even were it so you would love me, Mona?" One hand is resting lightly with a faintly theatrical touch upon the head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to her forehead as though to shield her eyes from the bright sun..
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Conrad
Mona hardly hears him. She is thinking of Nicholas's face as it was half an hour ago when he had leaned against the deserted doorway and looked at pretty Dorothy. "Not in England, perhaps. When I spoke I was thinking of Ireland," says Mona. "You look like Marguerite. A very lovely Marguerite," says Geoffrey, idly, gazing at her rather dreamily. Yet pretty Dorothy at her very best moments had never looked, nor ever could look, as lovely as Mona appears now, as she stands with her hands loosely clasped before her, and the divine light of pity in her eyes, that are shining softly like twin stars..
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