“Well,” she said. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. 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. She opened it and imbibed.
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