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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. ” “Relaxation, perhaps. Drummond,” he continued, looking across at his vis-à-vis, “we look to you to give expression to our sentiments. I am up to the ears in it all— every moment I can spare. It's so stuffy—and all that tobacco smoke!" He inspected his watch. ‘I can’t help but be sure,’ he returned shortly. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. Yon must be mine to-night. "Damnation!" exclaimed Wild with a snarl, that displayed his glistening fangs to the farthest extremity of his mouth, "I'm not to be trifled with thus. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger.
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