‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. 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. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. He speaks English.
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