"Then I am old-fashioned. 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. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. No more.
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