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. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Well, I don't blame you on that ground. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes.
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