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Thus adjured,—though in truth he requires little pressing, having been devoured with a desire since early dawn to reveal the hidden knowledge that is in his bosom,—Geoffrey relates to them the adventure of the night before. Indeed, he gives such a brilliant coloring to the tale that every one is stricken dumb with astonishment, Mona herself perhaps being the most astonished of all. However, like a good wife, she makes no comments, and contradicts his statements not at all, so that (emboldened by her evident determination not to interfere with anything he may choose to say) he gives them such a story as absolutely brings down the house,—metaphorically speaking. Rodney, standing beside her, watches her anxiously. She throws up her head, and pushes back her hair, and strains her eyes eagerly into the darkness, that not all the moonbeams can make less than night. "That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me.".
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"I wish to find the Sun's home," said Scarface. "I wish to speak with him." To Rodney, last night is one ever to be remembered as being a period almost without end, and as a perfect specimen of how seven hours can be made to feel like twenty-one. "Come in for a little while and rest yourself," says Mona, hospitably, "while I get the brandy and send it up to poor Kitty." "I am afraid you must class me with the ignorant," says Mona, shaking her pretty head. "I know nothing at all about thistles, except that donkeys love them!".
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