" A detective. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. And nothing to tell her where to begin. 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. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife.
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