‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. ’ ‘Yes, well, I was too young to see it,’ the captain said, tying a knot in his makeshift bandage. Gracious, there’s the gong. 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.
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