" "Why, what the devil's this?" vociferated Jonathan, looking up. 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. It is no crime, none at all. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. ‘I don’t want no gold! Not for serving my mistress. So was I, in fact.
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