The militia were in already. Kneebone and Winifred. 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. “Now bite as hard as you can, John. I hear her coming. I heard only after it was all over. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us.
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