Mike chimed in. 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 disgust you, eh? Very well, then. Carefully sustaining the child which, even in that terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he fell upon his knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept slowly on. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said.
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