She throws a sort of spell over us all. ” “Why?” Mr. 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. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. She pocketed the sum total of his ready cash, about fortyeight dollars.
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