But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. 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. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. If you can imagine it, I survived it. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy.
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