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. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. ” “You know,” he said with some hesitation, “that your sister is singing. \" She said. Sydney was watching her eagerly. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out.
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