Even the basest objects sold in the 24 roadside shops were beautiful in some way. 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. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. ” “Any place would be beautiful,” said Ann Veronica, in a low voice. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge.
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