“Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. 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. Finding it impossible to descend on any side, without incurring serious risk, Jack resolved to return for his blanket, by the help of which he felt certain of accomplishing a safe landing on the roof of the house in Giltspur Street. Watching her strip had been delicious for him, and a part of him enjoyed her self-consciousness acutely. ‘Did I say so? When last heard from you were claiming some good English name.
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