She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. 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. Not for me. ‘You can’t prove nothing. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension.
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