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. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. " "Understand what?" "You or this girl. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. "Remove him to the Middle Stone Hold,—watch over him night and day, do you mind?" "I do, Sir.
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