‘You imbecile. 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. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you.
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