She aimed directly at Rhea’s head. 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. “Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. It does not work, I still suffer madness.
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