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 robbers proceeded singly, and kept on the grass skirting the road, so that no noise was made by their horses' feet. That is, if Spurlock had been throwing money about, which was more than likely. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. She wanted to be alone. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. She looked at him mournfully. "But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn't extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented—so young, too, for such an old offender. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. " "Ah," said Spurlock; "that kind of a man.
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