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. Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. I have no right to love you.
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