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. "If you doubt my word, woman," replied the carpenter's wife, coldly, "ask Mr. " "You read those yarns?" Spurlock's head came about, and there was eagerness in his eyes. While the girl kept the patient from dwelling upon his misfortunes, whatever these were, he himself would have to keep the girl from brooding over hers. You go to your room and ring for your maid. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire.
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