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. ” She laughed. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. . \" She opened the front door with her keys, stepping inside. “Why?” he asked, suavely. ” “You have it,” he declared confidently. ‘Give me that!’ He took his finger away from her neck and made a grab at the handkerchief. Through no fault of her own. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility.
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