"Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. 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. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. I may prevail upon them to take you in until you are full-fledged, providing you do not find this aunt. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten.
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