" "As many as you please, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, resuming his seat. 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. The door to the room in question was closed. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. ” He stated matter-of-factly.
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