“Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Enschede halted. 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. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. And Miss Miniver began to sway her. She had finally managed to start breaking him down.
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