"You are lying, sir," says Mona, contemptuously.,
He has stooped very much over indeed. His hand is on the fern; he has safely carefully extracted it, roots and all (one would think I was speaking of a tooth! but this is by the way), from its native home, when cr-r-k goes something; the branch on which he rests betrays him, and smashing hurls him head downwards into the swift but shallow stream below.,
"What is it you would say?" exclaims Mona, threatingly, turning towards him a lovely face she vainly tries to clothe with anger..
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