There's the paragraph. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. 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. You could, if you were ambitious to round out your education, memorize certain popular foreign phrases. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down.
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