CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. "Bring the light, Nab. ‘Who has begun this but you?’ Gerald barely heard her. Nothing. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. Personally, however, I doubt if—’ ‘Charvill?’ interrupted Gerald without ceremony, all his senses at once on the alert. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. 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. ” Michelle squinted conspiratorially. I waited for her at the back.
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