It is just the aim I have had in view all the time. It was the grand nursery of vice. 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. “I was frightened then,” she declared. And, now, to find a messenger. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.
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