" "You're not going to betray me!" cried Jack, in alarm. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. 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. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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