He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. 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. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery.
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