“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. 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. Thames, meanwhile, had drawn his sword, and was about to rush upon Jonathan; but he was withheld by Wood.
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