’ ‘That is not your affair. 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. "Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. Unwillingly he drew a little nearer, and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. . I cannot explain beyond that. He could only wonder that this amazing thing had remained so long a secret to him. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism.
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