My wife—killed me. 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. Michelle was laid onto the back seat, her head cradled in Lucy’s lap. The Chapel. Phillips Oppenheim AUTHOR OF “THE SECRET”, “THE TRAITORS”, ETC.
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