‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. 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. You are necessary to me. A sinister thought edged in. “I want to make you happy, Lucy.
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