‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. 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. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. ” Lucy said, thinking of the Becks who worked around the clock just to keep a tiny house in the same neighborhood. ” Lucy said. ” She put her wrists upon his shoulders, feeling him surge with the pride of his own masculinity as she touched him. It was an impulse.
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