” She swept out of the room. 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. "It's a pump, like an organ. I sha'n't utter a word. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. Goodbye. “It—it—must come,” she faltered.
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