" "No—no," laughed Jack. But that still left the forty pounds!. 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 stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. “So it seems that I was wrong. ‘They cannot help it. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John. I won't dig their graves with my nails. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. But he was wide awake. “Martin, I don’t know what to say. She held out her hand frankly. Fas du tout.
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