“I’m not going to kill you, John. ’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. He had the air of a man who has said too much. "Thus," replied the prize-fighter. 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.
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