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"Poor Mona!" says Geoffrey; "don't tell her about it, as remorse may sadden her." The last lodge had been set up in the Blackfeet winter camp. Evening was closing over the travel-tired people. The sun had dropped beyond the hills not far away. Women were bringing water from the river at the edge of the great circle. Men gathered in quiet groups, weary after the long march of the day. Children called sleepily to each other, and the dogs sniffed about in well-fed content. "Where are you going—far from the camp?" asked the old woman..
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Conrad
"And do say it is like it," says Mona, entreatingly. "Yes, Sir Nicholas,—just an hour and a half. He desired me to say he had had another 'dart' in his rheumatic knee this morning, so hoped you would excuse him." The grass is still brown, the trees barren, no ambitious floweret thrusts its head above the bosom of its mother earth,—except, indeed, those "floures white and rede, such as men callen daisies," that always seem to beam upon the world, no matter how the wind blows. The old women said, "At the Point of Rocks—on Sun River—there is a camp. There is a piskun there.".
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