“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. “Then I suppose when I have graduated I am to come home?” “It seems the natural course—” “And do nothing?” “There are plenty of things a girl can find to do at home. At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. But I believe that Mr. ” A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John’s attention. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe.
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