As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. You love money. 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. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. " "Well, Sir," gasped Mrs. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. His voice had broken. E.
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