\" She said, looking beside him at a taller boy who appeared to be bored. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. 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. Let the law put its hand on his shoulder—if it could! But at present he was at liberty, and he purposed to remain in that state. "Odd's life!" cried Gay, in astonishment; "is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. "We'll see," returned the thief-taker.
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