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. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. " "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt. ’ Very likely they would give——” “I should be satisfied with the sum you mention,” Anna said quietly, “but there are difficulties. I had to stay in school no matter how sick I was. ’ Relaxing back, Gerald folded his arms. "The Captain's in such a desperate hurry, that there's no time for love-making. “Of course it is, Anna. "Your wife?" "His lawful wife," said Ruth, with fine dignity.
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