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. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. The porter instantly made his appearance, and Sheppard ordered him to take care of the horses. " "You may rest assured he does not," rejoined Kneebone, emphatically, "but I am at a loss to understand in what way your father proposes to assist him.
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