Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. 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. I am the richest man in England.
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