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. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. The heroism of two beach combers had saved all on board and their own manhood as well. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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