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. " "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. Sebastian drank deeply and quickly of her blood. "He has undertaken to finish this job by six o'clock, and I wish to see whether he'll be as good as his word. Thanks. He got up.
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