” She said to them, raising her head to speak, her voice unsteady. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. And there's your liver. 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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