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. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. "I was going to die, Hoddy!" she whispered. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye.
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