Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. " "You need not," replied Jack, in a tone of the deepest compunction. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. 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. Niente.
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