He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. The door to the room in question was closed. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. Paris is not the place for two young girls. 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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