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. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. Words of encouragement and sympathy were addressed to Jack, who, as he looked around, beheld many a friendly glance fixed upon him. There it was—to be borrowed. For it cannot be that this Jarvis will leave the house to my father. "If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. I shall be delighted to rescue you.
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