Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. " "I must now go and look after Thames," observed the carpenter. The young man had knocked over the siphon. Jonathan completely baffles and derides the ends of justice. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. ’ ‘What?’ uttered Gerald, startled. ” The man made no attempt to recover the revolver.
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