"But you said you weren't particular. "And now, shall we proceed to Queenhithe?" "Stay!" cried the other, taking a chair, "a word with you, Mr. 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. "And now, to your own concerns. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest.
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