The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. 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 feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action. She gloried in it: he needed her. Wood; "that's the surest way!" "No! no! give it me!" vociferated Wood, snatching the pistol, and rushing to the door, against which he placed his back. ” He took out his watch. That I should be challenged by you of all people.
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