Here he set down the lamp, and took out a key, and as he did so the expression of his countenance was so atrocious, that Jack felt assured he was not wrong in his suspicions. 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. Spare me, and I'll be quiet—quiet —quiet!" "Mother!" said Jack, advancing towards her. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me.
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