The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. You may go back, Marthe. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. You don’t deserve it, but he does. "The guv'ner'll be here afore midnight.
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