His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. 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. Three a week is my allowance, and, if I get short ones, four. I wonder. " "Don't scold him, father," interposed Thames; "he's been frightened enough already. If I am to have no other opportunity I will speak before them. Then pain entered their depths. .
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