She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. 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. "The plot's out!" cried Jack. It doesn’t matter with me, but there are at least a dozen young women in Mr.
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