" "Where are you going?" asked his mother. 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. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. I—well, I lost my temper.
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