" "And you flatter yourself you can detain me?" laughed Jack. “You have forgotten. 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. But she veiled her feelings. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. ‘Say it. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. ‘It is excessively important that the horse comes with us. —The general who gives an order for wholesale carnage never sleeps a wink the less soundly for the midnight groans of his victims, and we should deride him as a coward if he did.
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