She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. 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. "She has, she has," said Jack, in a broken voice. Take him away," he added, striding up to Charcam. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person. That's well. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do.
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