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. I don’t know. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope.
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