The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. . The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable.
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