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"I tell you I have not," says Geoffrey. "Nothing of the sort. You are wool-gathering." "Oh, it is dreadfully late!" says Mona, with much compunction. "Come, let us hurry." THE CAMP OF THE GHOSTS.
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Conrad
Mona makes no reply. "We are, indeed. But I think your having a fortune would only make matters worse." Then he grows despairing once more. "Dorothy, it is madness to think of it. I am speaking only wisdom, though you are angry with me for it. Why encourage hope where there is none?" And Mona had marked his embarrassment, and had quickly, with all the vivacity that belongs to her race, drawn her own conclusions therefrom, which were for the most part correct. "You don't know what you are talking about," says Doatie, vehemently. "Every one of those interminable half-hours will be a year off your life. Mr. Boer is obnoxious, but Florence is simply insupportable. Wait till she begins about the choir, and those hateful school-children, and the parish subsidies; then you perhaps will learn wisdom, and grow headaches if you have them not. Violet, what is it Jack calls Mr. Boer?".
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