I jumped then—I was not even shaken. She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. . 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.
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