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. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. “None, I thank you,” he answered. It is putting all my dreams out of joint. ‘Jacques? Oh, that is news of the very finest.
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