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. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. On Saturday he went to that there Mr Charvill’s house.
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