You understand me, I’m sure. 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. CHAPTER V. ‘Brung the lantern, I did, and opened the door again in case you was ready. and miscarried. " "Ha!" ejaculated Trenchard. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up. Perhaps you will explain the state of panic into which I seem to have thrown you. " "You say that the miniature was abstracted from Lady Trafford's jewel-box," said Jonathan, in a loud voice.
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