He had particular reasons for wanting to keep Spurlock away from the jetty. 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. I will write to your major, and you will send the letter very quickly. His brows drew a little nearer together. Martha was quite right. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked.
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