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. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. "Sit down, and enjoy yourself. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk.
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