His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. 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. That would be him.
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