There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. 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. Here's a couple in hand. She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern.
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