“Yes. 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. " "But a man may love his wife!" cried Spurlock, utterly bewildered. ’ ‘How do you know?’ Lucilla repeated, almost as sceptical as her intended spouse. ” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. Not fit to be dust on your boots. I think I know where I am puzzling you now——” “Then for Heaven’s sake be merciful,” he exclaimed. Now the doctor had the "feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. I'll have no such toast drunk at my table!" "It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper.
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