” “By God!” said Manning, making the most of the word, “I suppose it’s fate. Wild," observed the knight, contemptuously. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. 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 held her hand to the place where he had slapped her.
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