For that worthless father of yours—’ Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. Her face expressed nothing. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. 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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