"It is really hardly worth talking about," she says, grandly. "I was foolish to lay so great a stress on such a trifling matter. It doesn't signify, not in the least. But—but," the blood mounting to her brow, "if ever you speak of it again,—if ever you even mention the word 'heather,'—I shall hate you!",
"Bridget," says Mona, "will you go in and get me a cup of tea before I go to bed? I am tired.",
Still evening on, and twilight gray.
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