Anyhow, they didn’t run about so much. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. 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. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house.
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