The Times slipped from his fingers. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. He followed. 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. Her eyes flashed. . " "Do not speak of it," rejoined Thames, with a look of horror.
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