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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. John did not see her until the last period. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. That's a queer yarn. ” Chapter XII THE POSTER OF “ALCIDE” On Saturday mornings there was deposited on the plate of each guest at breakfast time, a long folded paper with Mrs. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. Are you sure you haven't mistaken the ward, Mr.
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