The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. 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. "Do you know this picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the miniature. He looked no longer at his wife. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably.
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