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’ ‘Lady Bicknacre too,’ said Lucilla, a delight in her voice that grated on Melusine. You do not understand, and you would like to. 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. ’ Lucy giggled.
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