I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. 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. Never was there another girl like this one. Only one penny—two copies—two pence—thank you, Sir. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. I don't care how lonesome it is.
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