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. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London? “Ever yours, “NIGEL ENNISON. It isn’t the same thing. “So Mr. ” “You are very kind,” Anna said. “Did she? I’m sorry, Mike.
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