"My head fairly turns round. But I forget," he added, glancing at Austin; "it's high treason to speak disrespectfully of Mr. " "Give you the best I have in either case," replied Figg. ’ ‘Yes, do. Thank goodness you’ll understand. 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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