“You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. 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. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune surely? I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. That’s my point. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate.
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