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. "I declare you throw me into an ague. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. It was so hopeless to put it to them. I do not intend to allow you to forget. “So you’d best open your coffers. This morning I met him at the dock, and he wouldn't take the other fifty. “Only—I have come face to face—with something terrible, and wholly unexpected trouble. "I could," replied Thames. The progress of time was marked in Mr. White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly.
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