As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. 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. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. “Nothing was ever done,” Miss Brett asserted, “without a certain element of Faith.
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