"Oh! they are—are they?" muttered Jack, triumphantly; "that'll do. 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. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. “You were seen to leave the flat, and your handkerchief was found there. I did not lay any traps for her. ‘Let go!’ ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Gerald demanded. While the girl kept the patient from dwelling upon his misfortunes, whatever these were, he himself would have to keep the girl from brooding over hers.
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