It was the size of my palm. 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. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. I have always loved you.
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