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. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture.
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