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. “Get me some brandy and my bag. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. It did not seem quite fair. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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