On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. 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.
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