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. A young man was playing the banjo. I know where everything valuable is kept. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. I ought to have gone long ago.
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