"How many hours there are in the night that we never count!" says Geoffrey, impatiently. "Good-night, Mona! To-morrow's dawn I shall call my dearest friend.",
Mona takes no notice of his words, but still stands by the table, with her hands folded, her long white robes clinging to her, her eyes lowered, her whole demeanor like that of some mediæval saint. So thinks Rodney, who is gazing at her as though he would forever imprint upon his brain the remembrance of a vision as pure as it is perfect.,
Cold, and half wild with horror, she yet retains her presence of mind, and, beckoning to one of the dogs, says imperiously, "At him, Spice!" pointing to Paul Rodney..
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