Nothing could exceed the dismay of these personages when they learnt why they had been summoned. Every word you utter puzzles me. I heard from David about you only this morning. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. 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. The great heart of the world beats only where men and women are gathered together. ’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last.
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