She too had 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. “I get that a lot. ” “You are not a coward,” she repeated, “or you would not be my friend. When you reach San Francisco, you can buy something more appropriate. Speak lower.
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