He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. 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. ’ ‘Also madame his wife—’ Charvill’s gorge rose. I hate children.
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