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. “You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings— many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick. And yet I know not—for the object of his visit here to-night was to serve Jack, who, if your statement is correct, which I cannot however for a moment believe, does not deserve his assistance. “No, don’t interrupt me. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. "I can escape to France. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss. We have seen great and sober-minded men come to this unholy city, and become degenerates.
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