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 was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones. “My name is certainly Pellissier,” she said, “but I am very sorry—I do not recognize you in the least.
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