" Neither man spoke. 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. "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. "Will he live?" asked Ruth. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. ” Anna measured out the coffee.
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