“You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said. "Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. But it is no longer necessary. If you do not find your aunt, my people will take you under wing until you can stand on your own. "No," replied Jack. 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. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead.
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