He replied, \"Want to go sit down somewhere?\" \"Sure. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. 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. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. He grunted a little with effort, and she realised the gilt frame must be heavy. Their very furniture had mysteriously a high-browed quality, and Mr. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. 8. “Mr. A dog appeared unexpectedly upon the threshold. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. Take your case, for instance. So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted the room, and went down stairs.
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