Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. 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 locked.
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