The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. Neither the manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. 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.
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