Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. 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. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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