He showed me a black mark under his ear, where the noose would be tied. 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. Talk to her of the new story; divert her; for this day her heart has been twisted sorely. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow.
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