"Jump!" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder. ’ A tiny giggle escaped her, and she lowered the pistol a trifle. 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. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder.
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