“Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. I have taken bullets and lived, and even a silver one wouldn’t do much. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. 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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