“It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. 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. I wish that it worked. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat.
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