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. ‘Well said, my dear. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. “Damn”. ‘The nuns, they teach prayer and obedience.
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