I said as how I’d tell Mr Jarvis as he wanted to take you away. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge. I'll be feeling fine in no time. 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. simply lost all hope. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite.
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