She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. Without you, we might have had some trouble. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. She was honest again. 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.
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