So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. He was beautiful despite the odd angle. “Come this way,” he said. 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.
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