“I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. 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. Everything was done in a genteel and ordinary way, but on the other hand, there was no lingering. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. My heart fails me.
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