’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. It keeps dangling in front of my eyes. 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 is past," said Jack, placing his finger on the trigger.
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