Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Why are you so anxious?" "Oh, if you can't see your way…. ” He said. 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. It filled his thoughts for the rest of the day, and became an obsession. " "A word," cried the boy, as the janizary was preparing to obey his master's orders. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. " "Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically.
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