My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. Mr. The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. ” “You won’t!” said Ann Veronica; with the clearest note of determination. 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. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road.
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