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. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. Sheppard had been interred. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat.
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