“I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. 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 pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. So long as he lived, Spurlock knew that in fancy he would be reconstructing that scene between himself and Ruth's father. " "I've just bethought me of a crib as'll serve their turn," interposed Sharples, "at any rate, they'll be out o' the vay, and as safe as two chicks in a coop. “Yes. “I want to know who you are.
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