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CHAPTER XVII. ‘Come, cry a truce. Immediately Spurlock began to chant one of these. 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. So Mrs. She directed the orchestra to tune again. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald. " "How had he offended you?" inquired the widow. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror.
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