Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. 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. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss.
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