‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. ‘You have no need to be afraid of us. But oh, how weary I am! I know. ‘Here she is. 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. "This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me—ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place.
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