“I rue the day I ever met you, Sebastianus. ” “And they won’t let us make plans for ourselves. 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. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. " "Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson. . “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. He came into the club next day, and of course we went for him thick. Kneebone in a conciliatory tone.
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