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. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. " "I'll bet she still smells to heaven with sour coconut. Purney, the ordinary, who had latterly conceived a great regard for Jack, addressed him in a discourse, which, while it tended to keep alive his feelings of penitence, was calculated to afford him much consolation. "You mustn't talk any more; the excitement isn't good for you.
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