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. ” She could have handled ten times the weight, and hoisted him on her back and carried him too. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme. . "I hear you plotting with your wicked associates," cried Mrs. "By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot.
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