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. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. Still, one never could tell. Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared.
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