I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. At length she hit upon it: bubbling water. 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. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind.
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