since the beginning. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. 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. His advice was mostly practical. Show him no quarter, Poll. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. She had better escape if she can. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. I never saw a man who wasn't.
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