’ ‘It will be worth the pain, you will see. 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. They were true noblemen, men of the court. Sebastian looked up and stood. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. Wild will hang me.
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