"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. " "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. 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. " At this allusion to his leader, a shudder passed through Blueskin's athletic frame. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. “Round midnight, I think.
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