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. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. Could she go through with it? She must. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life.
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