Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. "You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think. 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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