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. "And now let's see who'll dare to oppose me. "Go in, to be sure, simpleton," replied Mrs. ” She pulled a small blue box out of the pocket of her hoodie. " "Well, so long as he gets on his feet in the end. I’ll get in trouble. That he should pay forty pounds to help this girl who preferred another man was no less in his eyes than a fraud and mockery that made her denial a maddening and outrageous disgrace to him. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. But men are so careless, there's no trusting anything to them! However, I must try to brazen it out.
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