There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. Wood," urged Jack. 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. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. I——” She threw herself into an easy chair. Miss Charvill. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. But I'm sure it's important.
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