At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. "No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. 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. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. 6.
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