There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. 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. The boat in which he rode was not overset. “There have been other times,” he said a little sadly. ‘Very well, arrest me.
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