S. 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. ‘It is excessively important that the horse comes with us. Mrs. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. ’ ‘It’s no use you being superior,’ said Roding severely.
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