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See paragraph 1. 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. “There’s morbid beauty,” said Ann Veronica. "To the world's end," answered Jack, darting after him. ‘Well?’ she said. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. Presently McClintock came in. " Thames hastily cast his eyes over it, and transferred it, with a look of incredulity, to Wood. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred.
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