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. "My plan is a very simple one," rejoined the thief-taker smiling bitterly. “I am staying at the Savoy. " "Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. ‘To find what?’ demanded Gerald. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers.
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