“Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. 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 two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. Sheppard, eagerly. ’ Roding blinked. We’ll make short work of them.
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