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. ” She said. CHAPTER VIII. On searching the coat, he found, amongst other matters, a mask, a key, and a pocket-book. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Jonathan threw open the street-door.
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