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. I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. Every word you utter puzzles me. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. Sheppard. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. I could not keep away any longer. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book.
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