’ The girl bit her lip and backed a little, while her husband shifted to stand at her side. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. 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. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese.
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