His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. 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. I’ll take over here. Gracious, there’s the gong. “Girl friends. " No sooner had Wood crept through the window, than nature gave way, and he fainted. “It’s your birthday today, May Day.
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