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. What more was to be done? Frith’s investigations had proved fruitful, and the man was now keeping an eye on Valade. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. Killed is too kind a word. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley.
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