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. “Mere sensuality. Some of my schemes are already in hand. ” He glanced over at her cockeyed, and then returned his gaze to the road. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend.
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