Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. 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. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. The only safe place for him is at sea; and if he had kept to the sea, I shouldn't have found him so easily.
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