He would always be her friend, too. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. 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. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me.
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