They are born idiots, incurably insane. 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. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals.
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