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” She stopped short. 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 said that his life was boring and stupid without her. "I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose. And to think that man got it all out of the poorest little love-story for a respectable titled lady! Have you read of it?” “Never. Fifty pupils. ” “I’ll frame it—when I get it. “I wondered.
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