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. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. It fell with a clatter to the floor. Only she hadn’t.
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