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She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. He continued thoughtfully. ” Brendon rushed to the piano and strummed out a tune. 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. “Hold on. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand.
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