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. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. Sheppard now directed her steps. And because he knew it was a burden, there was no gaiety upon the doctor's face; neither was there speech on his tongue. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it. A remittance man. Altogether different.
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