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"That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me." From morn to dewy eve, nothing is discussed in bower or boudoir but flounces, frills, and furbelows,—three f's that are considered at the Towers of far more vital importance than those other three of Mr. Parnell's forming. And Mona, having proved herself quite in good taste in the matter of her own gowns, and almost an artist where coloring is concerned, is appealed to by both girls on all occasions about such things as must be had in readiness "Against their brydale day, which is not long."—As, for instance:— And now what remains to be told? But little, I think! For my gentle Mona has reached that haven where she would be!.
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Conrad
"Well, really, you know, yes. I think there is something special about her," he says, feeling himself in duty bound to say something. Seeing further talk is useless, Mona slips her hand into Rodney's and leads him down the road. "If you are bent on telling 'em, do it all at once," whispers Nolly, casting a withering glance at the smiling Geoffrey. "It will save time and trouble." "Oh, if I had not given you that pistol," sobs Mona, who cannot conquer the horror of the thought that she has helped him to his death, "you would be alive and strong now.".
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