‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. 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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