Gerald sighed. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. 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. But with Gosse and the woman in prison here, there is always the chance that the whole affair may be raked up all over again. "How?" cried her brother, starting. " "Fine! I'll be wanting a guide. ” Anna shivered a little. "You," answered Jack, abruptly.
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