“What is the good of talking?” said her brother. 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. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. ‘What a fate he finds for me. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?" "Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely.
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