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. . Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. “I hope that it has not done any harm. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she contented herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover, and encouraging him by her gestures. Fortunately, the window was not far from the ground; so opening it gently, he dropped into a backyard, and from thence got into the street.
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