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. She was too late. “Have you got to keep her now?” “To the best of my ability,” said Mr. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. " "Man!" screamed Mrs. Gay," rejoined Jack. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. What was this man?" "A detective from the States. But all this business has driven it clean out of my head. ‘Let go!’ ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Gerald demanded. They troubled no one, and as long as they did not noise themselves abroad and make a nuisance of themselves in this Protestant country, no one troubled them. 6. We dine at seven-thirty.
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