He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Lucy sighed. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. It was open. 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. "Certain. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. Then there was also the horse. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive.
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