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. "We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. You have taken upon your shoulders the burden of her misdeeds. ” “Come on! Why not?” “So I can spend more time with you, of course. " "I knew it," rejoined Wild, with concentrated rage; "and he escaped you all, in broad day, before your faces. " "'Zounds!" cried the executioner, in astonishment.
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