E. " "I cannot consent to it," replied Sir Rowland firmly. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. " "You need not," replied Jack, in a tone of the deepest compunction. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. 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's the matter?" he cried.
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