‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. “I’ve never been prone to them. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. 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.
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