" "Anything like that?" "Yes; but the colour is lavender. \" His brown eyes were tired and full of concern. "This is the explanation of the bloody deed. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. "Now—begin. 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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