‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. 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. And now you know. “A lot of these people will be going presently.
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