"How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. ‘I do not mind to pray, no. 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. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend.
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