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She could not say who, not yet. Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. “Get me some brandy and my bag. 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 overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. She had agonized over it for weeks. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. I was forced to lay on a bed of nails for three days. .
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