“I am going to fetch some things that will be wanted if he pulls through the next hour. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. 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. Without hindrance—present occupation. This time they would call it murder. The noise startled the apprentice, who instantly suspended his labour, and gazed anxiously in the direction whence he supposed it proceeded.
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