Perhaps because I don’t know. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. ” “There’s Miss Garvice. There were three exit doors. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. I think she might be up to something. ‘I have only borrowed it. ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. "Practising singing, Aaron," replied Jack. 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.
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