It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. 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. " "Very true," chuckled Jackson; "very true. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. " "I am almost afraid to utter it," said Kneebone; "but Thames Darrell is murdered. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving.
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