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. White, my landlady, believes his story. “Perhaps. ” He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter. But when she learns that you are a fugitive from justice…. “I’m being honest with you. You are my slave—and such you shall continue. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open.
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