“Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. 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. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood.
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