"Why did I not keep the money when I had it?" returned Blueskin, angrily. 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. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily.
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