‘And I do not know why you are so polite, when you have been bad to me last night, and have taken my dagger. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. 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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