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. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. In some cases they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. ’ Roding allowed that he had a point, and followed him as he began to mount the stairs. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to.
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