She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. 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. Prior to the great adventure, her mirrors had been the still pools in the rocks after the ebb. Wood chanced to be murdered by Blueskin, the fellow who just left the room, on the very night of his return, as it has thrown the house into such confusion, and so distracted them, that he has had no time as yet for hostile movements. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding.
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