Why should she? she asked rebelliously. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. I want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like. 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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