He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. Paris copies London. 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. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either.
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