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 gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. ’ He quirked an eyebrow. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. " "He must," exclaimed Jack, hastily; "but only let me have it till to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all his cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack Sheppard. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget. I'd go for it. “I expected you this morning,” he said.
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