" "That I will," replied Jack, "in the twinkling of a bedpost. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. “No, I administered poisons to you according to the ancient tradition. 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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