So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. I am a thing to be used. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. .
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