E. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid. 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. ’ ‘I am whatever you like,’ he agreed pleasantly, ‘but nothing is going to stop me from searching for this dagger. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him.
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