"Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently. 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 didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. “A confusion of motives—that’s what I am!. “You can’t think that I’m fool enough to be put off like this.
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