‘Come, mademoiselle, it is of no use to conceal anything from me, you know. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. “Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. 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.
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