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. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. He stood transfixed. Somehow I haven’t connected the idea with you. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress. . Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. ” She shifted again.
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