She leaned forward and addressed him. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. 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.
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