Let me take the satchel, sir. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. It was locked. “What a little brick!” he murmured. " "Never mind it, my dear Mrs. 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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