A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-EN—Trencher that's it. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. Nobody could possibly find him now. “You say you want a vote,” said Mr. 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 farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry.
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