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 don’t know how, but I always manage to find a 164 fiddle if there is one around. ” “Thanks for the nice evening, John. She wanted to kiss his feet. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door.
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